Who pays the price
by WhatHaveWeDone
Summary: Set at the end of the Tamuli, there is a price to pay for young knight Berit. Rated for violence, and probably swearing. No characters are mine. Will be a long one - I'm working on it... slowly - I'm aiming to update about once a month.
1. Chapter 1

**_I was looking at my bookshelf the other day, and realised that I hadn't picked up one of these in a long time and I was musing that my favourite character at the time should have got more page time. This scenario started to pop into my head and I haven't been able to shake it since. This section hasn't had an update this year, so I don't know how many people are going to see this, but as usual the writing if nothing else helps me get rid of these distracting thoughts._**

 ** _So if you are reading, hello! I hope you enjoy this. I know where this is going - loosely at least - and I look forward to telling this tale. All reviews and comments are welcome, and let me know that there is someone out there reading this :)_**

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Berit was lying in the dust, sun in his eyes and beating down upon him. Sweat was running down his face irritating him, but he couldn't find the strength to wipe it away. Something blocked the sun and for a moment there was relief from its glare, but then once again he was blinded. He didn't mind though as it was a distraction from the red hot pain in his stomach. He tried to raise a hand to cover his eyes, but that sort of movement was beyond him. His sun block reappeared and this time it seemed it was going to stick around as it started talking to him.

"Hang on Berit, they're on their way, don't worry."

"Khalad?" Now he was no longer staring directly at the sun and his eyes had a chance to readjust he was able to focus on the face of his friend above him.

"That's right, just stay still for me."

"What... what..." He couldn't string a full sentence together, just like he couldn't summon the strength to lift a hand to his face. The concern that Berit saw in his friend's eyes deepened.

"That's the shock, making it difficult to think. You caught a Crygan spear in the side... it's nasty... but some of that Styric finger wiggling or a little help from our favourite flower shaped gem and you will be fine and dandy." Khalad sounded confident, but his expression betrayed how serious this was.

Berit and Khalad had been slowly making their way to the city of Cyrgai – being the bait in one trap while walking knowingly into one them selves. A unit of Cryga had appeared from somewhere, and the Peloi horseman who had been following them at a discreet distance had been a bit too far to prevent them being overrun. Berit assumed that they had destroyed the enemy in the end though for Khalad to be unhurt, but that still left Berit dying in the dirt.

He knew he was dying, was certain of it in fact. Not because of the agonising pain that was now spreading to his entire abdomen, or the slick wet feeling that came from lying in a pool of his own blood, or the clammy, shaky feeling that was sapping his strength. It was the look on his friends' face that told him he didn't have long left. He had seen that look before, even given it on a couple of occasions, and knew exactly what it meant. Khalad was trying not to meet his eyes, glancing around frantically to see if help had arrived.

He heard the stamp of horses hooves, so knew they had been surrounded by Peloi horseman, though none approached, keeping a respectful distance.

"It's... OK" he managed to gasp out. Who knew that speaking was such an effort.

"No, it's not OK, but it will be. Just stay awake for me, my friend."

Berit gave a small nod to show that was doing his best, but as the seconds stretched into minutes Berit was finding it more and more difficult. His mind was wondering as he was becoming increasingly light headed, Khalad's snap of "Stay awake for God's sake" bringing him out of a gentle daydream of riding through a quiet wood. With difficulty Berit focused to see the desperation, hopelessness and worst of all the guilt on his friends' face.

Berit wanted to tell Khalad it wasn't his fault. He wanted to say how much he valued the squire's friendship. He wanted to reassure him that he would make an outstanding knight, and that he was sorry he wouldn't be there to see it. He wanted to remind Khalad that death on the battlefield was an honourable one. He wanted to tell him that even knowing where his path led, he wouldn't change anything. He wanted to ask Khalad to tell his friends -his brother knights - that he wished them a safe journey home. He wanted to say so much, but his breathing was getting shallower: he was struggling and gasping.

"Berit, no, he's almost here. Please."

Khalad's broken plea was quiet, as if it came from far away. Berit's eyes lost focus again, and he slipped into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Khalad sat, the desert wind tugging at him, ruffling his hair, but he was still. The whole world – apart from the wind – had frozen as he watched Berit's eyes slip closed. There was nothing else in existence worthy of note apart from the struggling breaths of his friend, his pale face, the horrendous wound from which Khalad was trying to stop the flow of blood.

"Please" He whispered as Berit's breathing slowed and then stopped. "Please." He didn't shout, he didn't scream, he didn't beg: there was no one listening. He just sat with hands still pressed against Berit's stomach as he watched life leave.

It didn't feel real, this couldn't be happening. How had they allowed this to happen? Even in a line of work as dangerous as that of a Church Knight, and with the death of his father a few years before, he still felt as if this couldn't happen to him.

Not to him and not to Berit. One of the few noblemen who didn't look down on the son of a squire. One of the few that wasn't so full of his own self importance that he couldn't admit when he was wrong. He took his duties seriously, would never break his word and Khalad was always filled with confidence when Berit had his back. They had come to compliment each other: they worked well as a pair – Khalad's practicality and Berit's education getting them out of a tight spot on more than one occasion.

Now gone. Emptiness clutched at his heart as the sun beat down on his back. He couldn't look away from his friend, somehow hoping this was just a pause, that another breath would follow soon. He didn't know how long he sat there waiting, empty, still, when there was a commotion amongst the surrounding horsemen.

"Let me through" a gruff voice yelled, and a familiar broken-nosed face skidded to a stop at his side. By which ever magical means Sparhawk had most of the journey the last two hundred feet or so must have been at a sprint by the look of his red face.

"How bad is it?" He asked of Khalad "Damn that's a lot of blood. Talk me through what you need from me Khalad. Khalad?"

Khalad looked his lord in the eye and dredged up the courage to say it, to make his nightmare a solid reality.

"You're too late" he was surprised at the control in his voice. He expected more emotion when he announced the death of his best friend. "He's gone."

It was only then that Sparhawk seemed to take a real look at their brother-in-arms lying still in front of them.

"No" gasped Sparhawk, disbelief plain on his face.

"I …. I couldn't stop the bleeding." Khalad admitted, guilt flaring in him.

"No" Sparhawk said again shocked. "No" This time the word was different – defiant. "No, I refuse to lose a brother today."

Sparhawk put one hand on his fallen friend, the other to the pouch on his belt that Khalad knew held the Bhelliom. "You'd better get back, I'm not sure how this is going to go."

Khalad at last moved his hand from where he had been futilely applying pressure to the wound, unsure what Sparhawk was going to do. Berit was dead. He sat back on his heels and returned to waiting as Sparhawk's eyes became unfocused as he... did whatever he did when he silently communed with the Bhelliom. All was still again, just the wind gusting between the two men and their departed friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Darkness. Just darkness. It didn't seem like there was a lack of light, just that there was no alternative to the darkness and never had been. Light did not exist here. It was still, no sense of movement as if the darkness was solid. There wasn't any fear of the darkness, nor comfort from it. It wasn't anything to inspire feeling: it was just a certainty of existence. He hung there for a moment or for an eon it was difficult to tell. He had no desire to stay but no reason to move either. And there probably wasn't anywhere to move to even if there was a way to do so. For the first time he felt a lack of thought, feeling and motivation. It didn't bring peace or even concern as they didn't exist here either. There was just a void where once there had been….. something. He didn't know what, but that incited no curiosity either. It wasn't until he heard voices that he realised that there was no sound here either. The voices were having an argument, one furious and one cold, the sound coming from everywhere around him and nowhere.

"I have sympathy for thine sorrow Anakha" said the cold one.

"I do not wish thine sympathy, I wish thine aid." That was the furious one.

"That is not something I will give"

"Will not? Not can not? So you could grant me this boon, safe a life as you have before, but you would refuse."

"I would. There is an order to creation as thoust should know, and I will not disturb it. Our arrival was too late. Thine brother has passed out of this realm and I shalt not recall him."

"Thoust said that mine power came from thine own. Is it within my ownst power to save mine brother?"

"Do not Anakha. Despite how thoust has grown though can not comprehend what thou suggest."

"I take it that's a yes. To hell with the consequences, I'll pay the price."

Somehow he felt the voice turn to him, focus on him.

"Please Berit, be alive, be healed, please brother."

Berit? That was _his_ name! He had a name, he was...

And that was all there was time for in that timeless place as the darkness was replaced with fire.

It surrounded him, fierce and roaring. At first it was a relief to feel the heat, as he hadn't realised how much he had missed the concept of sensation itself until it was returned to him. The it wasn't just heat lapping against him, it was a burning inferno. If he had a mouth in this empty place he would have opened it to scream, but he wasn't sure that he did. Then the fire was under his skin, running through his veins, tearing through his bones where a second ago (or a millennia, it was all the same) he would have sworn he didn't have skin, veins or bone.

He tried to look away from the whit hot tongues of flame that surrounded him, tried to turn and run. These were concepts that he just now remembered and they were futile in a place without direction or distance. He tried to shed clothes that he wasn't wearing in an attempt to ease the agony, but he found he couldn't move his arms for he was being held down. Down. Down had not existed a moment ago but now it did. He clung to that as the flames jumped in intensity crackling and spitting.

There was another sound – a yell. A cry of someone burning up from the inside. Yes, there he was. He almost didn't recognise his own voice warped by pain and fear as it was. What was going on? Who was doing this to him? Why? What could he possibly have done to deserve such punishment?

After another eternity in which Berit burned another voice intruded. He had heard this one recently. He was regaining a concept of time. In fact this was the last voice he heard before he had entered the darkness, having only just remembered that there had been anything before the darkness.

"What did that damn crystal do to him?" Khalad. That was the name that went with that voice.

"I... I don't know." One of the arguing voices, but instead of fierce it was now faltering and unsure. Berit found he could put a name to this one as well: Sparhawk.

"Here, put this under his head before he breaks his skull open." He felt his head lifted and something soft placed underneath it. With each passing second he felt himself coming back together, not missing a piece until it was suddenly returned to him. Fear of how thoroughly he had been torn apart came as he was reassembled but along with the grounding of self the fire within began to die down.

He stopped screaming, instead drawing in ragged hasty breathes as if he had been trying to outrun a troll. He stopped thrashing, relaxing muscles that had been convulsing just moments earlier and felt the pressure on his wrists lessen.

"That's it, deep breaths now" Khalad's voice soothed him away from hyperventilation.

Then Berit opened his eyes to see Khalad leaning over him, exactly as he had been before he had entered the darkness. But now Sparhawk was on his other side with one hand on his chest as if to stop him sitting up.

"Thank all and any Gods that are listening! You did it Sparhawk."

Berit raised his hands to study them – instead of charred and burned skin that he was expecting he felt... normal. Tired maybe. Well completely drained if he was honest, but not like he had been in the middle of an endless inferno.

He couldn't gather his thoughts to speak so instead lay there noting the recent despair that was layered beneath the joy he could see on his friend's faces.

"I... I remember." He expected his voice to be croaky and chocked from smoke, but it was clear if a little faint.

"Take it easy," Khalad said as he trailed off. "That was close, very close. I thought we were too late, but obviously not. But that was a lot closer than I ever want to be again, you hear me." There was anger in Khalad's voice now, something that Berit didn't have the strength to pull him up on right now.

"Sure, got it. Don't get surrounded by fifty heavy infantry and speared in the gut." He muttered instead, a wave of dizzyness hitting him as he tried to sit up.

"What part of take it easy do you not understand? Idiot noblemen." This was definitely not muttered.

"The part where I don't want to be lying in a pool of my own blood." Berit's hand went to his side as he spoke feeling undamaged flesh instead of a large wound.

"Well, I suppose you might need a change of clothes at that, but lets not rush it. First drink this." Khalad said passing him a full flask of water.

As Berit tipped his head back and drank he saw Sparhawk watching him from the corner of his eye.

"I'm sorry Berit... when Bhelliom has healed before... it hasn't usually been like _that_. Maybe we just cut it a little too fine for it to be that easy." Sparhawk looked concerned and evasive, as well he might.

"How long... how long was I..." _dead for._ That's what he wanted to say _How long was I dead for._

It was Khalad that answered. "You... I thought... but no, your heart must have been still beating although slowly, and then Sparhawk arrived... and then you started yelling and thrashing... that must have been ten or fifteen minutes." Khalad sounded unsure, he was usually too steady to confuse a dead man with a living one, even if it was one of his friends. And certainly not for fifteen minutes. He looked to Sparhawk quizzically.

"Yes, it was close" Sparhawk appeared to be trying to keep up the pretense.

"Is there anywhere we can go to get out of the sun?" Berit asked, keen to have this discussion but just not here.

"Of course." Khalad held out a hand and gently pulled Berit to standing. He put the other hand on his arm to steady him when it looked like he might topple, but then pulled him into a fierce hug.

"I don't know what just happened but I don't care, just don't do it again, you hear me." His voice thick with emotion.

Berit knew exactly what had happened. He had been dead and gone for fifteen minutes, and then he'd been resurrected not by Bhelliom but by Sparhawk himself.

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 _ **This is where I'm at right now, and I hope you have enjoyed reading so far, no matter how far in the future you are reading this. I do have an idea of where I want the story to go, but I'm not sure if it will work. And if it does, it is likely to be big and take a long time to write. I don't have the time for that sort of thing right now, so if you are wanting to see how the story goes it is probably best to hit follow, and only come back if you get a notification that there's an update. I hope there will be one day - I hope I can get this story to work so it stops creeping round at the back of my mind. Your comments and reviews, as always, received with gratitude and joy!**_


	4. Chapter 4

Adequate. Sufficient. Up to scratch. That was how Berit would describe himself. He was a good knight, her worked hard at it, but he didn't think he would ever go down in the chronicles of great knights of the order. He wasn't the fastest or the strongest or the most skilled. He knew that not everyone could be exceptional but that didn't stop him working hard to be as good as he could be. He was stubborn and he would do practically anything for his brothers-in-arms and he had enough pride to want to prove himself, despite his lack of excellence. That drive is what led him to ride after a group of bandits, train against any knight that would spar with him, and sharpen his sword when he was barely awake enough to keep his eyes open.

He was steady. He was dependable. He was bright enough to know that something was wrong, was different, but not bright enough to realise that quickly, despite all the gods and monsters he had faced.

That conversation with Sparhawk never happened. That had sought shade, a drink, and Berit had changed out of his blood stained clothing. By the time he had cleaned himself of his own death Sparhawk had been called away. Then he had been surrounded by his family. Then he had been busy organising the journey home. Then Berit had been assigned duties escorting the injured. Whether through duty or coincidence or family, at no point did Berit have an opportunity to talk with Sparhawk on that long journey home. Berit was avoiding Khalad almost as hard as Sparhawk was avoiding him: he had no answers for the young squire. He had no answers for himself, only the nagging feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When that moment came the shoe didn't just drop, it stomped, shaking the foundations on which Berit built his knowledge of himself. It shattered what he knew to be possible and gave him a renewed determination to have a chat with his friend.

He hadn't been sleeping well, not surprising considering he was frequently startled awake by nightmares of slick blood beneath him and an endless silence. He made his way to the chapter house kitchen, certain of at least a warm fire and a flagon of something to make the night pass quicker. He was surprised, given the hour, to find someone else already there, ladling soup from an overnight cauldron into a bowl, bread and cheese already laid out on the table.

"Can't sleep Sparhawk?" He addressed the weary looking man in front of him.

Sparhawk started, obviously not having heard Berit approach, so engrossed he was in his own thoughts and the meal in his future.

"Just back from the palace actually" he said with a somewhat forced casualness. "I was just about to take all this up..."

"Don't leave on my account." Berit interrupted, noting that it looked like Sparhawk had every intention of eating from the kitchen before he arrived. He gestured at the food laid out on the table and sat. "Looks like you missed dinner."

Sparhawk – with some reluctance sat opposite. " Something like that. Being both Prince Consort and Interim Preceptor keeps me busy, and some of those courtiers... If I knew Ehlana wouldn't banish me there would be a few more broken noses."

Berit gave a grin at that, imagining that his friend's temper would be severely tested towards those who spent most of their life at court.

"See much of Talen recently?" Sparhawk asked, spreading rich butter onto his still warm loaf.

"Not really, apart from when he wants to complain about his training. Apparently I'm his favourite teacher." They both gave a laugh at that. "I think I didn't prepare him properly for the real world: I put up with too much of his cheek."

The conversation continued for a few minutes, both of them pretending this was just a casual catch up between friends. Berit didn't have the patience to wait for an appropriate turn in the conversation though – something else he needed to work on – so he went straight for the jugular. Figuratively.

Berit unsheathed his belt knife and brazenly cut a chunk of cheese from the portion that Sparhawk had served himself with.

"Enough about Talen." He said. "I need to talk to you about the desert. You owe me some answers." He popped the cheese in his mouth, enjoying it's sharpness.

"That wasn't anything to do with me" Sparhawk was immediately defensive. "I was just a conduit."

"I know that's not true. I remember the conversation you had when... when I was dead." He pushed the words out, finding it difficult to think of that place as the stillness stalked him at night. "I prefer not being dead, I really do, but something isn't right and I need you to talk to me."

Only silence came back from across the table.

 _Fine._

Knowing his friend, knowing his stubbornness, Berit figured that it was going to be difficult to actually get Sparhawk to talk. He had hoped that it wouldn't come to this, but he had a plan just in case.

With a sharp movement – before he changed his mind – he thrust his now-cheese-free knife into the back of his other hand and into the table beneath it.

That got Sparhawk's attention.

"What the hell?" He yelled, jumping back in shock.

Berit was feeling some shock of his own, the knife a line of fire as it scalded the inside of his hand. He felt the blood oozing from the wound, also hot against his skin, but the flesh felt cold. He involuntarily twitched and felt the lance of pain from his hand flare into his wrist and forearm. It forced his breath to hitch and he clenched his jaw against it.

Sparhawk had moved quickly, taking but a few steps to reach a nearby cloth and had now returned to where Berit had pinned himself. He gently moved Berit's hand from where it still grasped the hilt and replaced it with his own. Giving Berit no time to prepare he withdrew the knife.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Sparhawk repeated, wrapping the cloth around Berit's hand, harsh tone not matching his gentle actions.

The knife coming out hurt almost as much as it did going in, and it temporarily robbed him of the ability to speak. He had been expecting this of course. It felt exactly the same as when he did just a few days earlier. It still surprised him though. If he was wrong he was going to have difficulty explaining this.

"Because I want to talk to you, but you always make an excuse. This is important and I'm fed up of you avoiding me." Berit was speaking through gritted teeth, hand throbbing. But he wasn't wrong – the pain was already beginning to fade. "And I need to show you something. Remember we ran into those bandits on our way back from Tamuli and I got lucky – one nicked my tunic but didn't reach the skin?"

Sparhawk nodded, pressing his hands against Berit's own to slow the bleeding.

"And I haven't got any bruises from training this last few weeks. No matter who I've been sparring with. And a fortnight ago I cut myself sharpening my own damn sword. I can't ignore this any longer."

He removed the improvised bandage, using it to wipe off the remains of the blood and presented Sparhawk with his now unmarked hand. There was no sign of a recent wound, nor even a healed one. It was if his injury had never been. Something was now 'more than adequate' about him.

"What did you do?"


	5. Chapter 5

The moment stretched between them, Berit's question hanging in the air. Sparhawk looked him straight in the eye, expression stunned. Berit flexed his hand, now good as new and tossed the bloody bandage to one side. Sparhawk was no more stunned than Berit had been when he had first seen this. It had been the same when he cut his hand before: a few moments of pain and bleeding and then nothing. It didn't ache or twinge and there were no marks on the skin, only a smear of red remained.

It did leave a strange feeling. Or an echo of a feeling. A feeling of emptiness that reminded Berit of the other place and stirred panic in him at the thought of that returning. He didn't want to go back there.

Sparhawk shifted slightly and gave a sigh. "I don't know. I honestly don't know." His shoulders sagged but his gaze never dropped, daring Berit to disagree as he continued. "We were losing so much, and I couldn't lose any more. So I acted, I did what I had to and don't regret it."

Berit sat back with a smile, relieved to be talking about this at last. "I don't regret you doing it either, just so we are clear."

Sparhawk gave an answering smile of his own, a small one, still shocked at this revelation.

"This was all a bit … dramatic, don't you think?" He asked, gesturing to the bloody knife on the table.

"It seemed appropriate, would you have believed me otherwise? I barely believe it myself."

Another sigh. "I don't know what else to say really, I was only thinking about you getting up again, and then you were."

"Bhellium warned you not to do it, any idea why?"

"No."

"Can you ask?"

"No. Bhellium is... gone... is the best word for it."

Berit closed his eyes, disappointment raging. He had hoped for some answers, he _needed_ them, but all he had was uncertainty. If he didn't know how or why or what was happening how could he know anything about himself. What if there were other changes, what if he hurt someone? What if he was taken back to that empty place? He was floundering and lost: without a tether to keep him grounded he felt as if he were floating – lightheaded and dizzy. At the same time his chest was restricted, lungs struggling to expand, a mountain pressing onto his shoulders. His heart pounded and the sea was rushing in his ears.

"I need to know Sparhawk. I need to know what this is, how long it will last, if there are going to be any other side effects." His throat was tightening and it shamed him that he was losing control.

He started as a hand grasped his forearm, the touch completely unexpected, comforting and firm.

"I don't have any answers for you my friend," Sparhawk reassured face an interesting mix of concern and determination, lifting the weight from Berit's mind with his words "but I will help you find them."


	6. Chapter 6

To Dr Spiggly:*waves across the fandoms* Thank you so much for taking the time to leave your review; it warms my heart so much to know that there is someone who has read even one word of this!

I admit the continuity is a bit iffy -as I hadn't actually read the book in years and I'd forgotten some of the timelines. Here we have to imagine that after Sparhawk had his showdown with Kael he got word that Berit and Khalad were in trouble, but he didn't give up his power until after he did his thing here.

Any way today is a snowday so that means: midweek update, yay!

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Berit threw down a scroll in disgust. He was disgusted at it's contents: a very graphic description of some sort of ritual sacrifice that the author had decided wasn't graphic enough so included diagrams. Diagrams! He was also disgusted as the quality of the penmanship – if you're going to make a clear and detailed record of human sacrifice you could at least do it neatly and start again if you spill ink. He hoped it was ink. He was also disgusted at the waste of his time.

He had spent the better part of two weeks holed up in the chapterhouse library. With Sparhawks authority he had searched through every scroll, ledger and parchment: the mundane and the usually-off-limits just the same. He looked for legends about the Bhellium, myths about healing, spells that touched on death – anything that could be remotely connected to his ... condition.

And he had found nothing. Well not nothing. He knew a lot about several obscure cults and knew a recipe for a great sleeping draught which might actually be useful for those nights that he saw dusk to dawn. But he was no closer to understanding what Sparhawk had done to him.

He hadn't expected to find the exact scenario of 'what happens next when your friend brings you back from the dead using the power that creates worlds' but a hint would have been nice.

Berit looked around at the mess he had made in this little corner of the library, and wearily stood to start to return books to their shelves. He had been putting this off: a signal of defeat because he didn't really know where to start searching next. Berit had been trying to avoid thinking about what would happen if he didn't find an answer – he didn't want to face that particular fear as he was sure it would grip him and never let go.

He was so deep in his musing that he didn't even hear Khalad approach until he was standing right behind him.

"So this is where you've been hiding." The squire said, voice echoing between the shelves.

"I've been doing some research for Sparhawk." Berit tried to hide his surprise at Khalad's sudden appearance – he wasn't usually this oblivious but was sure Khalad wouldn't miss the opportunity to rib him for it.

"And the reason you were avoiding me before then? Come on, I'm not stupid. You leave every room I enter, barely talked to me on the way back from Tamuli and have been locked up in a library for a fortnight! Have I done something to offend you?" Khalad was right, though Berit hated to admit it. He didn't want to avoid his friend. He was confused and afraid by the gods he was starting to get afraid. He could really do with a friend to talk to. Sparhawk was often busy and it wasn't quite the same unloading this burden on the man who caused it.

"No, of course not, nothing like that." Berit lied. He wanted to tell the truth, but as they days rolled on and he had found no helpful information his fear increased. He had tried to approach Khalad on several occasions, but backed out at the last moment fearing his friends reaction more than facing this alone.

"Is it to do with what happened in the desert? Berit, you nearly died, of course that is going to have an effect on you. Don't be fooled that anyone else around here could just brush of an experience like that. They just do a good job of hiding it." Khalad was reaching out a hand, his concern clear. Berit could do it now, come clean. He could tell Khalad everything – the things he had seen and felt, who had actually bought him back. He could help, Khalad was smart. Khalad was... his hand was falling. His face turning from compassion to hurt as Berit missed his moment and Khalad took his hesitation as rejection, distrust.

"Fine. Sparhawk had to go to the palace for a few days, asked me to pass this to you." Khalad's tone was short as he delivered the message. Sparhawk had been trying to persuade Berit to talk to Khalad for days now, so it made sense that was how Khalad found him. The squire handed over a tightly rolled piece of parchment.

'This might help: The Second Codex in the library of Duke Meltit' was all it said. Just as Berit had run out of possibilities here, Sparhawk offered him a glimmer of hope.

"We'll talk soon, I promise." Berit said, meaning it "But it will have to wait. I'm going to visit Duke Meltit in the morning."

Khalad was showing no small amount of satisfaction. "Well it just so happens that Sparhawk wants an update on the Duke's progress on subduing bandits in the area. So I will also be travelling in the morning: we can talk along the way."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Thank you for your review LillieMae! I'm very happy that you have enjoyed this so far! :)**_

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What followed was the most awkward journey either of the two young men had ever taken. They talked about the weather and likely camping spots and firewood and the health of the horses. They didn't talk about whatever Berit had been 'researching' for Sparhawk. Khalad wasn't buying that: Berit had a lot of strengths but poring over musty documents was not one of them. They weren't talking about the reason Khalad had been asked to make this journey: which was just as well as that had been made up on the spur of the moment just to come along.

One thing they were definitely not talking about, were skirting around, was what happened to Berit in the desert. Khalad had tried to wipe away the memories of his friend bleeding out under his hands: but that was proving surprisingly difficult despite the fact his friend was right here beside him complaining about travel rations. The sun had been so hot and there had just been so much blood... and then Berit had been so so still for far too long. But that was in the past and Berit was well and grumbling away. But if Khalad was having trouble with this he couldn't imagine what Berit must be going through. He had seen men take near-mortal wounds before and there always more than physical effects: you couldn't just brush off a brush with death. Except Berit didn't have any physical scars thanks to the healing he had been given, and Khalad _didn't_ know what Berit was thinking as he _wouldn't talk about it._

Though he knew many people and got on well with most, Khalad didn't consider that he had many friends. There were a lot of people to share a pitcher of something and a tall tale, but not many would-have-your-back-any-time type friends. Certainly none of the other knights treated him as an equal- though he would make sure that changed someday. And very few men tried as damn hard as Berit did to do the right thing. Khalad wasn't stupid: he could see the tension is Berit's shoulders sometimes, saw the darting glances into the shadows, noted how he sometimes woke with a start and he was determined to do something about it. No matter how many errands he had to make up.

If he had been any less worried about his friend perhaps he would have been less distracted as they sat around the campfire that evening, and perhaps the rest of their journey might have gone differently. But he wasn't paying attention so the first he knew of an archer stalking them was the grunt of surprise and pain from Berit as the arrow pierced his shoulder. No it must have been a crossbow bolt to cut through his chainmail. Or at very close range and even so... His thoughts at last flicked from the skill of the archery to the fact his friend had just been shot as a voice called out from the darkness "That was a warning shot. Lay down any valuables or weapons you have and there won't be any more."

Khalad couldn't tell where exactly the voice was coming from except vaguely behind him, and had no idea how many more arrows might be pointing at them right at that moment. He stood in surprise and moved to help Berit who was clutching at the arrow as if to remove it.

"Don't do that you fool." He cautioned, noting the blood oozing slugishly from the wound and pressed a hand against it.

"It... needs to come out. Take it out. Please." Berit said through gritted teeth. He had toppled from where he had been sat and was now on his knees.

"Yes it will come out but not like this! You'll do more damage." He instructed as their assailer once again spoke.

"Now just step apart, show us your weapons and your purses."

Khalad pulled up, caught by indecision. He felt the deep need to help his friend – he couldn't watch him bleed out, not again – and the need to destroy those who threatened him. He would need to stop this bleeding, figure a way to get the arrow out safely. At the same time he would need to try and defend the two of them. Berit was in no shape to fight, trembling beneath Khalad's hand.

He was about to roar a threat when he heard an urgent whisper from his left "Grak, do ya see? They're wearing _Church_ tabards Grak! The Church!"

"Shut it Lant!" replied the original voice. "I'm doing my thing here."

"But The Church! You know what ma used to say about them. She said they could see inside you head, an could walk through walls an would drag ya off if ya talked back."

"I don't care whose colours they wear Lant, or what ya ma said. They can't read minds or they wouldn't have let themselves got shot would they? Now. Be. Quiet." Great. Just they're luck to be held up but a pair of arguing morons. They could still end up just as dead though and Khalad was no closer to a viable plan: he was still glancing about trying to work out where exactly the voices were coming from.

The second voice subsided into muttering and the first gave a sigh, clearing it's throat. "Now. As I was saying. Put down your weapons and your valuables and then you can tend to your friend and OH MY GOD DID HE JUST PULL THE ARROW OUT?"

Khalad snapped his attention to Berit who had indeed just ripped the arrow out from his shoulder. Of all the stupid, idiotic, insane... _stupid_ things to do. It could have been caught on bone, or barbed, or hit an artery. Let alone the muscle damage he had just done.

Berit threw down the arrow, face pale and blood flowing. "We **are** of the Church. We can not read minds but you aught to have listened to you mother." As the beginning of the sentence Berit's voice was wavering, but it strengthened as he continued and the bleeding slowed to a stop. He slowly got to his feet and drew his sword, filling the air with the menacing sound of steel, no sign of restriction in his shoulder. "You had a warning shot. Do I get one now friend?"

There was a long indrawn breathe from one side and a high pitched "I told you" from the other. A moment later there was a crashing from the bushes and the sound of two men hurriedly reconsidering their life choices and considering that the next one was to be far away.

"Well that worked a bit better than expected." Berit said to himself quietly lowering his sword.

Khalad didn't care what he expected. In a few quick steps he had grabbed Berit by the shoulder, feeling for the wound. He dragged Berit a step closer to the fire even though he had plenty of light to see by. Where he had expected a gaping wound he found nothing but unbroken skin. There was lots of blood on his shirt and his chainmail would be need to go to the blacksmith. But there was no injury. No sign. Khalad lightly put his palm against Berit's shoulder to check it wasn't just his eyes deceiving him. Berit was slightly warm but other than that...

Khalad looked at his friend in confusion and concern and saw trepidation looking back at him.

"I can't explain this" Berit admitted "but we should talk."


	8. Chapter 8

"So what does Aphrael say? I take it you went to her?" Khalad asked.

Berit had spent a large portion of the previous night talking, trying to explain the things he barely understood. As the deep of night lifted and dawn crept into the sky Khalad started to ask his questions. First they were disbelieving but gradually he had come to realise that Berit was joking, so his questions changed and were now striking to the heart of the matter.

"Of course. She's being tight lipped." And furious, she had been furious. She hadn't raged or thrown thunderbolts but the signs were there in her posture and her frowns. Child Goddess she may be but Goddess all the same and Berit had not stayed to provoke her further.

"And Bhellium?"

"Gone elsewhere, taking Sparhawk's power with it." That had been Berit's first hope: that Sparhawk could just undo whatever it was he'd done, but that was quickly dashed. "Do you think I would be burying myself in dusty books if I didn't have to."

"No. I suppose not."

They rode without conversation for a while, continuing the journey that had been rudely interrupted the night before. The steady pace of hooves on hard packed road and the creak of leather saddles filled the silence between them.

"So you don't know how long this might last?"

"No." Berit replied quietly.

"Is it just blade wounds that heal like that, or others as well?"

"I don't know. I haven't exactly been putting it to the test. I'm a fool but I'm not stupid." Khalad gave a snort at that, thankfully not launching into his usual opinion of lordly intelligence.

"I thought you had gathered everything about Bhellium back before you all went to Zemoch." Khalad said.

"Yes, but then we didn't know what it truly was. Then we were looking for tales about a mad trolls shiny obsession. Now I'm looking for information about the power behind the creation of worlds."

"Why exactly?"

"Why?"

"Yes why. You should be dead twice over. But you are not, yet you don't seem happy at that." Berit was surprised at the bite in Khalad's voice, and recognised the anger he was trying to suppress.

Well Berit was angry as well. He was angry at Sparhawk playing with new-found powers on him, and then throwing them away when they didn't work like he thought they would. He was angry that the people – and Gods - he usually turned to for answers were leaving him out in the cold. He was angry at Bhellium for leaving. He was angry at himself for dying in the first place. He pulled up his horse and Khalad was forced to stop as well or leave him standing in the middle of the road.

"Of course I'm bloody happy to not be dead! But there's a difference between being glad to be alive and wondering what else your friend did when he bought you back from the grave. So no, I don't know how long this will last, I don't know how far it goes and I don't understand why it happened in the first place." Berit realised he was yelling. He modified his volume slightly, but continued to vent all the fears he had been trying to deny. He took a deep breath. "Each time I've healed its... it's hard to describe but it's like the other wounds that have already healed ache with cold. What is that? Will it get worse? What if I get sent back _there_." Berit was almost whispering now, anger and energy exhausted as he spoke.

"Was it so bad... I thought..." Khalad was speaking just as softly now. Berit knew what he thought. They'd travelled far enough – and spoken to enough Gods - to know that each religion had it's own idea of what happened after death but they were broadly consistent: the virtuous were rewarded while the wicked were punished. An endless empty silence wasn't mentioned anywhere. Maybe that was what Flute had been angry about – his insight into the afterlife rather than Sparhawk's actions, like he first assumed.

"Not really I suppose" Berit offered. "I didn't know any different while I was there. It was peaceful. But once Sparhawk started to bring me back..." He trailed off.

"It looked painful."

Berit swallowed at the memory. "It was. If... if I go back there... It's better not to know that there was anything else. It's better not to know what you're missing. But what if that's not what's waiting next time." Berit was trying to make Khalad understand his fears: that half knowing something was worse than complete ignorance.

"Why did you keep all this to yourself. Why not ask for help? Don't you trust me?" Khalad had clearly been hurt by the days that Berit had spent isolating himself in his fruitless searching. Their journey together across the Tamul empire had forged the type of bond that only occurs with someone who faces death at your side. If Khalad considered Berit's actions a betrayal then that was just one more thing that Berit had to make him understand.

"Of course I trust you!" Berit said.

"Well it doesn't feel like it." Came the grumpy reply.

"I wouldn't be telling you all this if I didn't trust you." Berit thought that this would be obvious.

"And yet would you have said anything if I hadn't seen you get _shot_ in the _chest?"_ This time it was Khalad was yelling, face stern and arms crossed, the horse standing patiently beneath him. "No, I don't think so. Do you know what this has been like? To see you almost..." He corrected himself "To see you die like that. Then you've been avoiding me. Then to see you get hurt _again_ and.."

Berit interrupted him, incensed that Khalad was taking his death of all things as a personal offense.

 _"_ I didn't ask you to come. You just invited yourself because you think you know better than anyone else. We are just all so stupid compared to you right?"

 _"_ If you call hiding from your friends stupid then yes. How long ago was it that you were telling me that to be a Knight was to trust the man beside you implicitly. But now, you can't even hold a conversation with me. Where's the trust there?"

"Back to this? You are the most trustworthy man I know."

"Balls."

"It's me that can't be trusted."

"What?" Khalad's question was sharp, but all anger had left his voice. Now he sounded – and looked – confused, as if trying to understand a small child who was babbling nonsense.

"What if there are more side effects, Khalad. What if they aren't all as beneficial." Berit would have hesitated but he had said so much already, why not finish. "What if they affect my mind and...I hurt someone. I don't understand what's happening and that can only be dangerous for those around me."

Khalad gave a sigh, and swung down from his horse.

"Get down here." He gestured at the young knight. Unsure, Berit did as he was told – he did trust Khalad after all.

The moment his feet touched the ground, Khalad clasped his shoulders firmly, then drew him in for a fearsome hug.

"Listen to me, you fool." He whispered harshly. "If there's such a thing as a heaven you of all people will be going there someday. And you are not going to hurt anyone because it's just not in your nature."

"What if this changes my nature."

"I won't let it. What if we try and forget but all the possible things that could go wrong, which, let's admit for men in our profession is a very long list." Berit gave a grunt of amusement at that. "Let's just be glad that you've been given a second chance."

Khalad let him go, looking for Berit's agreement.

"But..." Berit didn't get very far.

"No, no buts either. Today we are both alive. And we are going to go to find this book of yours to put your mind at ease, but if you trust anything trust this: I will be watching out for you. And watching you, if I have to."

Berit smiled at the sincerity in his friend's voice. The thought that Khalad would be looking out for any odd behaviour awhile they were on the road together was more comforting than he expected, and he was a fool for not having this conversation earlier.


	9. Chapter 9

_**It's been a while since I've updated, but there is a reason! First, I have been writing various parts of this story, as inspiration hit, so some of the future chapters are already done. Second, I've been trying to decide on the future structure of the story, as that has an impact on what I write now and the order I write it. Thirdly, after some dithering I decided that I needed someone to beta this, which of course adds a bit of time - so thank you to tumblr users ashtynqueen, kgbsprite and stuckwithcats for helping to make this chapter happen!**_

* * *

Sparhawk rolled the scroll between his fingers, signaling his reluctance to open it. That Berit had sent this rather than returning to the Chapterhouse worried him, and his choice of messenger just compounded that. Khalad had arrived well after sunset and delayed just long enough to change out of travel stained clothing before presenting himself: Sparhawk had insisted he eat a decent meal before they talked, despite the late hour. Now they were sitting in the privacy of Sparhawk's quarters, a flagon of wine between them and a roaring fire in front.

"Aren't you going to open it? Don't you want to know what stupidity he's spouting now?" Khalad asked, his harsh words and curt tone matching the glare he was giving the message.

"Or you could just tell me what's in it." Sparhawk suggested, still holding it lightly.

"I haven't read it – he sealed it. I'm not that low."

Berit had indeed sealed it, the red wax of his crest - a fox and axe - pinning the scroll tightly closed. That wasn't always a fool proof way to protect a message however. Khalad would certainly know how to make an intercepted message look untouched and had ample time in the weeks he had been carrying it. There were other ways – magical ways – of making sure the contents would stay private, but Sparhawk could tell that Berit hadn't used any of these.

"I didn't mean to imply that, just thought that there's probably nothing in here that will surprise you, so why not go ahead and fill me in."

"I'll let him have his say first." Khalad replied, turning his gaze to the fire.

There was nothing left to do then except crack the wax seal to reveal Berit's careful and neat handwriting.

 _Sparhawk,_

 _I hope this finds you well. I hope_ _Khalad_ _has returned safely and he has managed to stop cussing me out. He can tell you the details of the last few months, but I want to make it clear that I told him everything about what happened in_ _Cryga_ _, and since. More than I've told you in fact. I had no choice really once he saw, but I'm glad I did. I had wanted to. And I'm sure that's what you intended when you sent us both out._

Sparhawk gave a small frown at that – he hadn't sent anyone anywhere. Of course he had made some suggestions for Berit but had returned from the palace to find a scribbled note from Khalad that told him Berit had asked for his company. He had noticed a rift between to the two young men in the weeks following the... incident, and while he had done what he could to get them talking again he honesty hadn't expected them to both up and leave.

 _We spent several months crawling around in one dusty library or another before finding rumors of a monastery in the southern mountains_ _\- the_ _Bagat_ _-_ _that collect and catalogue all manner of arcane and ancient knowledge, so that's where I am heading next._

 _Khalad_ _and I had words when I told him he couldn't come, for which I am sorry. The pass will soon close for the winter and_ _Khalad_ _can't afford any further time away from_ _the order, not if you have planned what I think you_ _have planned_ _. I actually had to order him to come back to you, and I don't think either of us liked that feeling. But perhaps that will be a motivator and he will_ _start training_ _that much sooner._

 _It will be at least summer before I return, and I probably won't be able to send a message before then, but I have hopes that I will have more answers than when I left._

 _Please pass my best wishes on to your family, and ask_ _Khalad_ _not to stay angry at me for too long, I'm sorry for everything I said._

 _Berit_

"He said you had words?" Sparhawk asked the young squire, handing over the letter for Khalad to read for himself.

"Words? No – he's just trying to make us look better. We shouted at each other in the market for at least fifteen minutes. He said I had no ambition and an inferiority complex. I told him he was a sanctimonious idiot with a death wish. Not for the first time." Khalad was reading the letter as he spoke. "It was hardly our finest hour."

"So you had a huge argument - in public, not adding to the reputation of the Order there" Sparhawk rubbed his broken nose at the thought of the rumours that might start "Because he told you that you should come home?"

"No! Because he ordered me to come home. _Ordered_. Like I was some sort of..."

"Like you were a squire of a militant order and were expected to obey a fully spurred Knight?" Sparhawk finished for him wryly.

Khalad was silent for a moment, before sighing and nodding. "Yes, I suppose. It sounds simple when you say it like that, but it was different at the time. He's never usually like that, not superior and condescending like some of the others."

Sparhawk knew that Khalad's and Talen's presence had caused some friction in the Chapterhouse. The younger Talen had been enrolled as a novice, but he had not managed to persuade Khalad to yet, though it was widely known that was his intention. It was not normal for a man of common blood to become a Church Knight, nor was it normal for someone to have to be persuaded to join: it was considered an honour for a young man to be accepted. Sparhawk's Knights were good men, but centuries of tradition took time to overcome and the requirement for a title was one of the most ingrained. Some of the older Knights had trouble accepting that change was coming, and to be honest Khalad's attitude did not always help.

"But he was condescending this time?"

"No, far from it. Look, you don't need to tell me I overreacted. I know that." Khalad's tone had changed from snappish to resigned. He must have been weeks travelling on his own and there was nothing like an open road and just a horse for company to prompt some serious self-reflection.

"And does Berit know that?" Sparhawk leant over and refilled both their drinks.

"I was two days on the road before I let myself know what a fool I had been. Then it was too late." Khalad took a deep swallow of wine and gestured with the letter. "Berit clearly came to the same conclusion the night before I left. He was just so infuriating: so set on going off on his own."

"I think he'll be alright. He's very capable." Sparhawk said carefully.

"I know he's _capable_. But he thinks he won't be hurt – I watched him pull a crossbow bolt from his shoulder and have no wound a few minutes later." Sparhawk was too old – had seen too much – to shift in discomfort under the younger man's scrutiny, but that's not to say that he was unaffected by the intense look Khalad was giving him. Sparhawk was still far from comfortable with what happened, with how it had happened, and had held some selfish hope that no-one else would know the truth. He didn't regret his actions to save Berit's life, but he couldn't shake the guilt that he had acted without real thought for the consequences despite Bhelliums' warning.

"And that will make him reckless." Khalad was finishing.

"Of all things, Berit is not reckless." Sparhawk said considering. There were many ways to describe the young knight: steady and steadfast, competent and considerate. But never reckless.

"Maybe. But that was before he could take a sword to the stomach and walk away. That was before he spends half the night awake worrying about whether he's going to lose his mind. He's going to run into something one day and he won't stop to think about his limits." Khalad replied.

"He's scared that he has no limits."

"I know. That's not an excuse to go visit those mad monks by himself though."

"As bad as that?" Sparhawk had never heard of a monastery in those mountains. Not that he paid particular attention to that sort of thing. Maybe Bevier would know them – pious as he was he had an interest in other religions as well as his own.

"Everyone we spoke to said they were reclusive, temperamental and as likely to shut you out in the cold as welcome you in." Khalad explained "The only good thing we heard was that they have an extensive and unique library."

They were both silent for a moment, filled with concern for their friend.

"He will have been worried about you too, you know. " Sparhawk said.

"Needlessly. I don't care if he's worried about me getting hurt, or worried about me seeing _him_ get hurt again." Khalad paused and Sparhawk remembered that mad dash to Berit's side, the blood soaked sand, the thrashing and screaming of his friend as he was healed. It was hard to witness another's pain and that was surely something that kind-hearted Berit would want to protect his friend from.

Khalad was continuing, "There just isn't a good enough reason for him to do this alone. You don't really need a squire most of the time, so it was good to be able to fill my days with something useful."

"Well, about that. You can't put off your own responsibilities forever."

"Responsibilities? I don't have responsibilities."

"Yes you do. Training, the Order, becoming a Knight. It's an opportunity for you but that doesn't come free. The price for being able to wear the armour and cast magic is the weight of responsibility to do so only when necessary." Sparhawk sat forward, leaning closer to his friend as he spoke. "And the expectation is that you will strive to be as good as you can be. You will owe it to the Order, and your brothers will expect nothing less than your best. I've let you put this off for far too long, and the others have heard me grumbling about it enough. The sooner we stop playing with the suggestion of Knighting you and actually get on with it the better it will be for all of us."

Sparhawk wanted Khalad and Talen to be Knighted and landed – for them to become an accepted part of the order – in the next few years. Sparhawk wanted to give up this ridiculous title of Interim Preceptor and the time it took from his family. That wasn't going to happen until Khalad in particular was seen as part of the furniture and that would take as many concessions from the ex-squire as the existing Knights.

The Order would need Khalad: would need his practicality and level headedness. And Sparhawk owed it to Khalad's father, Kurik, to improve his sons' lives.

"This isn't making me any more enthusiastic you know. I still think this is a bad idea." Khalad mused, swirling his wine with a thoughtful expression. They had had this conversation many times, rehashing their positions until it had become rote.

Sparhawk was determined though. "I don't need your enthusiasm right now. That will come. This is the best idea I've ever had and I'm not going to give up. All I want you to do is focus, and to give this a try. Do you think you can give do that?"

Khalad gave a slow nod, and Sparhawk smiled in response.

"Then you should get some sleep, you'll start in the morning."


	10. Chapter 10

It was indeed full summer before Berit next had sight of the Chapterhouse. The winter had been long and mostly tedious. After gaining permission to enter the monastery of Bagat – just a few hours before the first snow storm of the season – it was several days before anyone was willing to talk to him about his... condition. But once the interest of one was sparked it roared through the monastery until all other pursuits were thrown aside.

Berit had settled into a quiet routine: rising early to share a simple breakfast. Then he would be taken aside and questioned about his experience, trying to tease out a thought or a feeling that he hadn't mentioned before. The rest of the day was his own – he tried to earn his keep by completing simple maintenance or manual tasks that were needed around the compound. When deep winter had gripped the mountains they had all retreated inside and the discussions were heated enough to warm everyone – apparently intellectual stimulation was important when the monks found themselves snowed in, and they were grateful for the distraction.

As the weeks rolled by Berit had found himself trying to tamp down his impatience. Of course no-one else would weigh this with the same importance as he did, and it was unreasonable of him to expect otherwise. But still, each day that passed in which the research had been paused to find an alternative translation of a document, or in which discussion had spiral into a tangent nagged at him.

Berit found himself becoming less comfortable with the fearsome cold of the mountains, feeling an empty echo of what the monks were calling 'The Event' each time an icy wind buffeted him. Rising before the sun didn't bother him and the pagan ceremonies he politely ignored – as the monks did when he went to his own prayers. But there was only so much meditation he could stomach when his uncertain thoughts chased themselves round in his head and he had run out of physical tasks to keep the dark fears at bay.

When spring had truly come to the mountain range Berit made ready for his departure. More days were filled reliving The Event without being able to dredge up anything new, and further time spent writing it down for the monks to pour over once he had left. The Abbot – that wasn't his official title of course, but that was how Berit thought of him – had given his assurance that their enquiries would continue even in their subject's absence due to the intriguing nature of the problem.

When Berit had finally taken his leave it was with thanks, relief and some trepidation. Thanks for the efforts that had been made on his behalf so far. Relief that he was going to spend another winter confined with a group of people who were examining him as a quirk of nature. The trepidation stemmed from the few answers he had gained so far – gaining them had been hard and learning to live with them would be harder.

Now he was nearing the city of Cimmura and the Chapterhouse- heart of the Pandion order. Weeks of heat had started to turn green fields brown – the crops would need rain soon to give a good harvest. Sun beating down on the back of his head reminded him too much of blood on sand, so he had hastened his journey. Stopping less. Travelling further each day. Berit knew he should have rested his horse more but the road drew him on, keen to be once again in familiar surroundings among his friends. He had never been homesick before – not when he had travelled to Tamuli, not when he left his family and began his novitiate at the age of twelve. The last few months had been difficult however, and his heart ached for his Pandion brothers.

In particular Berit missed his close friends. He hadn't seen Bevier, Ulath or Tynian since the return to this continent, them having returned to their home orders: and he had been too immersed in his own misery to spend much time with those who did live in the same country. It was too long since he had spent time in good company without a war or it's consequences hanging over his head. He longed for some simple conversation, the smell of clean armour and the rattle of practice swords.

Berit found himself particularly concerned with Khalad – concerned that the anger he had kindled in the other man would still be burning. It didn't take much for a noble to make the young squire irate, and Berit had found a number of ways to do it: going to Bagat on his own, managing to get himself hurt, dying in the first place. A tendril of shame wormed it's way through his soul at the thought of that last morning they spent together and the argument than had built form fierce mutterings to yelling and cursing. He had said some things that were ungentlemanly and damn well untrue. Could he hope that would be forgiven for those words?

At last Berit rode through the large wooden gate, that nestled into thick stone walls that would have been intimidating if it hadn't been home. He nodded to the familiar faces on guard duty with a smile that was returned, the archaic ritual greeting having largely falling out of fashion. One called out his name in pleased surprise which drew the attention of the small group of men who had been sparring in the courtyard. They lowered their weapons and one approached as Berit dismounted, handing the reigns over to a young stable boy who had appeared at his arrival.

"You finally decided to come back then." The bearded man said, crossing his hands on the pommel of his practice sword. Berit refused to let it be like this. He grabbed the man by the shoulders and dragged him close, and wasn't disappointed when Khalad eventually returned the hug. Parting slightly while giving a slap to the back Berit said. "It's good to see you. I'm sorry for what I said. For all of it." That was the most important thing to say, to try and salvage their friendship.

"Well, about that. There's no fool as foolish as the one who doesn't think he's a fool," was the reply.

Berit frowned. That had the sound of an expression, but not one Berit had ever heard before.

"Is that one of your father's? What does it mean?" He asked.

"No, it's one of mine and it means I'm sorry too. I lashed out - something I despise in others – and have spent three quarters of a year wishing we had parted on better terms." Khalad spoke lowly, so only the two of them could hear amidst the bustle of the chapterhouse. In another man this might be to keep their conversation private and avoid loosing face by admitting a fault. Berit knew that this did not apply to Khalad – his earnest way of speaking only emphasised his words.

"Can you forgive me for keeping secrets from you?" Berit aske. The question had been weighing on him as much as some of the other. Khalad's friendship was important – it grounded the young Knight and gave him a new perspective that he had not previously been exposed to.

Khalad drew back slightly and looked him straight in the eye, radiating sincerity as he said "Your secrets are your own, to share or not as you see fit. I'm pleased that you have shared with me what you have, but don't confuse that with any expectation."

"Good to know, but I could use a little sensible conversation right now, those monks were useful but not the easiest to live with." He could drink on the stories from that place for years if he wanted to, and would happy to, now his trepidation was being replaced with relief, having found his friendship with Khalad as solid as ever.

"Sure. Later. I'm not finished here yet." Khalad gestured over his shoulder to where his sparing partner was looking a bit impatient.

"Fine, I'll meet you later."

* * *

The sun had set by the two men next met. Khalad had given more knocks than he had taken, but was still relieved to be released from sword practice. He was well aware that training never really finished for a Knight – it would not do to become lax or complacent – but he would be glad when he was past the stage of working the sword forms daily and the tiredness that went along with it.

Khalad had changed into a fresh tunic and re-trimmed his beard: his mother was always insistent that her sons be well presented when sat at the table, a habit he was happy to uphold.

Searching through the crowded tables in the refectory Khalad spotted Berit in the centre of a knot of bubbling conversation. Not surprising. Away for most of a year there would be many who wanted to talk to the popular young Knight and find out why he had been absent. Snagging a bowl of hearty stew and some fresh bread he made his way towards the full table. Berit saw him approach and gestured for the others to make room, which they did with – somewhat surprisingly - no visible reluctance. Khalad made a start on his meal while listening to the ongoing conversation.

Berit was being informed of every drunken embarrassment, amusing fall or misstep any member of the order has taken, some of them that had only happened that day. Really, these men gossiped more than anyone else he had known and could spread a rumour faster than a carrier pigeon.

Berit's interest was genuine, his smiles broad as he was updated on the minutia of the Chapterhouse. It reminded Khalad of meals with his brothers back on the farm: the easy conversation, gentle ribbing and casual one-upmanship was a staple of a family meal back for him. It was heartening to see the dynamic replicated in this place and though he was not a part of it yet Khalad was beginning to be comfortable with the prospect that he might come to be.

Whenever conversation flowed to Berit's adventures he deflected talk away from the reason for his long absence and towards amusing anecdotes of time on the road. He told stories of his time in the remote monastery: he described the Bagat monks as not so much reclusive as particular. They were largely self sufficient so could afford to pick and choose who they traded with. Their religion was a strange, pagan thing that focused on the accumulation of knowledge but they were loathe to share it unless you had something interesting to offer in return. A Knight returned from the dead would probably have been enough. The few glances Berit shared with Khalad were laced with meaning, promising that there was more to be discussed but not shared with this large group.

* * *

"Well, my friends" Berit announced at last, standing "it was good to see you all but I should retire if I am to present myself to Sparhawk in the morning." He received the offered quips about his lack of stamina in good humour while backing out the room, Khalad following.

"It seems I've missed a lot, but none of it very surprising" Berit said smiling as they walked down the torch-lit flagstone corridor.

"Yes, men will drink too much and fall down, wherever they are." Khalad replied, referencing a very amusing and recently told anecdote involving a Knight, several hours of drinking and an exaggerated fall down a very small slope. "Even where you were, I would imagine."

Berit screwed his face up slightly saying, "Not so much drinking, more's the pity. The closest they got was a sour apple juice, but it's a monastery so I suppose abstinence is to be expected."

"And we're meant to be Church Knights, but that doesn't stop anyone round here."

"Ha! 'We" Khalad? I'm almost surprised that you accepted your fate so readily. Last time we spoke you were resolute that you were never joining the order." Berit paused at the door to his chamber, his amusement clear.

"Don't make more of this than it is. I was just tired of Sparhawks' nagging." At least in part.

"Sure it was." Berit pushed open the door and Khalad followed him in. "Nothing to do with finally deciding to prove that you are just as good as any noble. Your father had that same trait you know."

"I know." Stubbornness, a no-nonsense attitude and the ability to grow a thick beard his father had also passed down. "And maybe if had been wearing armour that day he wouldn't have died."

"Maybe" Berit replied softly as he knelt to light the ready laid fire.

Khalad forgot sometimes that Berit had been there. When still in his teens, purely by chance he was part of the group of fearless Knights that went into the world to defeat a dark God: on the strength of being able to double for Sparhawk. Khalad rarely thought about how that must have been for his friend, to be thrust out on a quest that would have made full Knights hesitate, with only a novice's training to fall back on. Being the most inexperienced of that party Berit was lucky he had come back whole from that. The loss of his father had of course devastated his family, but there were more repercussions from that journey rippling through other's lives. It was a harsh fire in which to be forged into a tool for the Church.

"And maybe it wouldn't have made any difference at all – it doesn't always." Berit was continuing, several small flames now dancing in the grate. "I've seen enough men die in full armour to know that."

"Would it have made a difference to you?" Khalad asked.

"In Cryga?" Berit frowned in thought as he stood from in front of the fireplace and instead sat in one of the two chairs, gesturing for Khalad to take the other. A Knight's chambers at the Chapterhouse were more functional than fashionable, though they held all the essentials: table and chairs, a chest for clothing, a thick rug to ward of the chill of the stone floor, a stand for his armour, a not-too-uncomfortable bed. Berit chose not to trade on his personal friendship with the Preceptor to improve upon this. It was far from the memories of arid desert that the conversation had taken then towards.

"I'm not sure to be honest. Yes, solid armour instead of chainmail would have helped, but those Crygan's were much stronger than normal men. And with just me armoured you would have been the target. I've been thinking about that day a lot – every day really – and I don't think there was a win there for us."

Well, that was sobering Khalad thought. He wasn't one for no-win situations, that was akin to giving up.

"But there was a win, maybe not in the conventional way but we both walked away. In the end. That's a win, right Berit?" Berit didn't respond, keeping his eyes down. "Right?"

Khalad felt the weight of what happened in that moment – the difference between a win and a loss was not just in the outcome of a battle but was in the affect it had on the people involved. Walking away was a win as far as Khalad was concerned, it was a simple as that. Any other after affects could and would be dealt with.

"Berit, what did you find out at the monastery." Khalad cut to the heart of the matter – the reason for this private conversation.

"A lot." Berit's tone was suddenly weary and he rested his chin on one hand. "Most of it not helpful. I can give you a lecture on the spread of pagan believes in agricultural communities sometime. But for me..." he sighed, but at Khalad's encouraging look went on. "I won't bore you with most of the philosophy behind it, but it boils down to the fact that Sparhawk used the power of creation to make me live when I shouldn't have been. So the change he made to – well, there's a word I can't remember for it, 'the way things are' - is permanent."

"Permanent? I'm still not quite understanding."

"The way that Sparhawk made me that day – uninjured, alive, is now the way that things are meant to be..."

"Quite right too" Khalad interrupted, not seeing the problem so far.

"...so anything that interferes with that..."

"Like getting a crossbow bolt to the shoulder." Khalad interjected again.

Berit rolled his eyes this time as he continued "Yes, for example. Anything like that is undone."

"Undone?"

"Undone. To make it so that it never happened."

"I know what 'undone' means. So that's why you heal?"

Berit nodded.

"And this ….. ability to 'undo' ... lasts for how long?"

"That was a matter of some discussion between the monks. There were arguments, much waving of paper, several factions fighting for territory in the library." Berit shook his head, smiling slightly at the memory. "I left before they came to an agreement - or blows – by the sounds of it the question may take years and cause some sort of schism."

"So what did you really find out? Apart from giving these monks something to talk about, what did you actually achieve?" Khalad tried not to sound terse but he thought of the time Berit had wasted traipsing across the land, the arguments they had had on the way – if Berit hadn't found out anything useful then what would have been the point?

"I found out that this is lasting, I found out that that what Sparhawk did is rewrite the fabric of creation for me and that's a lot to take in. I found out... " Berit paused, as if he wasn't going to continue, but at a nod from his friend, did.

"I found out that where Bhellium placed itself during the creation of the world is special, and is the only place this change can not be sustained. I don't know what would happen if I go there: I could drop dead from that original wound or just not heal any more, or a number of other things. I don't know where it is – maybe deep underground, the bottom of the ocean or a thousand feet up in the sky, and I have no idea how to find it. Even if I wanted to."

Khalad took a deep breath, trying to process this latest piece of the puzzle.

"So the world had been reset to accommodate a breathing Berit, except in one specific spot. And that's the way it would be until old age catches up to you?"

Berit just shrugged.

Maybe not the whole answer but Khalad could appreciate why even that little knowledge about your place in the world was comforting. He himself had felt somewhat lost – there had been so much talk about him moving from squire to Knight, but little action on it for so long. He had wavered between looking forward to it, dreading it, not believing it would ever happen. He had teetered between accepting his life as it was and embracing what it would become until he tired of the uncertainty. Now that he was actually enrolled he knew which path he was on and could accept his future: and he was glad if his friend had found some measure of the same.

Was there something more though? Something in the slant of Berit's shoulders, the tilt of his head made Khalad think that he was keeping something back.

"And that's all?"

"That's all I know. There's much more to know, may be more to fear." And for a moment Berit did look afraid, afraid of the unknown perhaps. "I promise you Khalad - I need to have someone who understands, someone I can talk to so I am done keeping secrets from you. Everything else I just don't know, but those monks are working on it, out of their own interest if nothing else."

"Are you going to tell the others all of this? You could do with friends by your side in this, more minds to work the problem." Khalad encouraged.

"Yes, ermm probably – they're probably going to notice at some point any way. I'm not sure how though." Berit admitted with a creased brow.

"You could use this thing we have called 'words' you know." Was Khalad's suggestion, keen that Berit have more support than just one man. Not that Khalad didn't want to help Berit, he was more concerned that there may come a day when he couldn't.

"What, gather everyone together and just say 'I used to be dead and now I'm not. Oh, and I don't get even papercuts any more.'" Berit scoffed.

"Well, I would suggest something more eloquent than that."

"Do you have any suggestions?" Berit sat back while asking the question. Khalad took it seriously; Berit was not in the alone, and Khalad meant to show him that.

"Not yet, but I'm sure we can come up with something. Something that doesn't involve getting ambushed by bandits."

* * *

 _ **thank you again to ashtynqueen for all their help beta'ing this chapter :)**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**I've been writing this for a year now, an entire year!**_

 _ **Many thanks once again to ashtynqueen for their great betaing skills.**_

* * *

"And then he be that I couldn't fit a whole apple in my mouth, and I told him I couldn't in one piece but I could if I cut it up and he said that wouldn't count and I said it would still be a whole apple so.."

Khalad's tutors had decided that he was progressing well in his studies and had begun to send him out on messenger duty to nearby towns and cities, often accompanied by a younger novice. It was something he was more than capable of, and he could see the value in a young man taking on this relatively minor responsibility before moving on to grander things, so he decided not to be offended that he had to also complete this duty.

"Sir Krolig said that I needed to be lighter on my feet! Me! He didn't even hear me when I first entered his classroom and he wants me to tread lighter! He is _all_ about the footwork – he would be better as a dance teacher really, I haven't even held a sword for weeks... "

And he couldn't deny that that he had learnt a good deal about the roads surrounding Cimmura and knowledge of any sort wasn't to be sniffed at. All novices had a stint at messenger duty and this was just another thing that Khalad was going to prove himself capable of.

"I'm getting really good at reading though. Not Styric, I haven't started that yet but it can't be that much harder right?"

This time his partner was in fact his brother and in the last two days they had more conversation than the rest of the summer. Talen had done most of the talking and Khalad was pleased at how – despite his grumbling - Talen had thrown himself into his own studies, leaving the pickpocket and street urchin behind. There would always be that aura of barely suppressed mischief around the youngest of Kurik's sons which attracted him many friends.

Khalad wondered if he would suffer the same questioning at the end of this trip as the others: a Knight would take him aside and pepper him with questions about what he had seen and heard when delivering his message: how well it had been received and so forth. He was also asked about the accompanying novice – asked to evaluate how he had acted when not under the imposing eye of a fully spurred Pandion. Not first time it crossed Khalad's mind that this was a very efficient way to evaluate not just the novice but his own evaluation of the novice.

"Where is this inn anyway? This isn't a big town." Talen had at last given up complaining and was practically standing in his stirrups to try and see their destination.

"Should be around here somewhere."

"Why did we have to make the detour here? Couldn't Berit just come back to the Chapterhouse on his own? He doesn't need an escort from us. I'm tired of riding."

Maybe not totally given up complaining then. Constantly questions orders, is what Khalad would say when asked about his brother. But they were always relevant questions at least – Talen was far from stupid.

"I have no idea." Khalad admitted. He had no idea what Berit had been up to recently, apart from spending little time in the Chapterhouse, on Sparhawks' orders no doubt. There was no evidence that Berit had been given the opportunity for those conversations they had talked about, even if he had the will do to it. Which Khalad thought Berit had, but some things were easier to commit to than carry out.

Something tickled at Khalad's nose, different from the usual stink of horse and man that made up a thriving town – the scent of char on the air.

"The inn's down this one." Khalad nodded to an upcoming side street. Turning the corner they were met with a scene of devastation – the inn they had expected to rest at was little more than a shell. The stone walls were intact on three sides, but the roof was completely gone: empty windows framing rubble that was piled inside.

Most of the street was filled with the normal rush of traders and their customers, but there was a group of men standing with hands on hips inspecting the ruins. It was one of these that Khalad approached.

"What happened here?" Khalad's authoritative tone overriding the moments hesitation that the man had at being questioned by a complete stranger. Either that or he was just one of the people who liked to hear himself speak.

"There was a fight in one of the upper rooms and we think someone must have knocked over a lamp or something, but the whole building just went up so quickly. Old man Jenkins is going to rebuild of course, but first we have to clear this away, and where do you find good timber at this time of year? Well that's his problem I suppose, but I told him, 'why don't you do all stone instead? Then there's nothing to burn.' Well, he didn't like that and…."

"We were meant to meet a friend here" Talen piped up, thankfully stopping the incessant flow of words. "Where might he have gone?"

For the first time the man took in the symbol of the Church that was emblazoned on the shield that hung off Khalad's saddle and shifted uncertainly. "Was he a Pandion too... my Lord?" He added after a moment's hesitation.

"Yes."

"Then I'm very sorry my Lord. The children were trapped, calling from the windows and... he went in again and again … the last one he had to throw out to caught and then... and then the floors collapsed and the fire was too hot and it burned for almost a full day and we had to work so hard just to keep the fire from spreading because it could have taken the whole town and it only just cooled down enough to go near and... I'm sorry, but he's dead." The man stammered to a stop, at last running out of words and breath.

"Have you found him yet?"

"No... but…."

Khalad held up a hand to stop the man from saying anything further, trying to guess the weight of the inn that was tumbled in front of them. A lot, but hopefully not too much. Of course Berit would run into a burning building if there were children in danger. He would have done it before, he would have just done it quicker now.

"Just show me where he would have been." And the man pointed silently to one corner.

Khalad removed his cloak and pulled out a pair of heavy gloves – Talen did the same with a grim expression.

"He'll be ok, trust me." Talen shot him a sharp glare that Khalad accepted. Those words must seem an empty cliché to someone who didn't know and it had become clear that Talen didn't. Khalad didn't like to share secrets that weren't his own but he might not have any choice today. If Berit wasn't sufficiently sorry about the hell his little brother was going through, well. He would be.

A small crowd gathered to watch them work, the mood solemn as Khalad and Talen shifted charred beams, the remains of heavy furniture and negotiated pieces of collapsed roof. The brothers were silent at the worked baring a brief 'help me with this' or 'watch your feet'. Talen clearly wasn't in the mood for talking, full of fear thinking his friend badly injured - or worse - and Khalad didn't know what to say that might be believable. The townsfolk probably thought it was out of grief so out of respect, they maintained their own silence.

The work was hard, the debris heavy. They had to frequently pause to wipe the sweat from their eyes or shift their footing to something more stable. Smaller pieces they could throw with ease, larger needed the both of them to manoeuvre out of the way. They slowly excavated a crater that marked the passage of time and exhaustion snuck closer as their efforts yielded nothing.

"Maybe he was trying to make his way out at the time?" Talen suggested.

"That implies a degree of sense, but you could be right. Where were the stairs?" Khalad called to the spectators. Several arms raised, pointing in unison.

Moving to the new area Khalad and Talen set to it. Though daylight was starting to fade Khalad had no intention of stopping and remained resolute against yet another mountain of stone. This time their persistence was rewarded: the movement of what might once have been a door revealed the face of their heroically idiotic friend, pale under a coating of dust and soot.

"You fool." Khalad would have called back the words, but they were instinctive under circumstances like this. It was a bad habit he was trying to break as no matter how appropriate, his observations were rarely well received. He heard his brother faintly gasp and then scrabble over to get a bit closer.

Berit's eyes were tightly closed and his jaw clenched, but he gave no response to Khalad's greeting in either word or movement. His breathing was barely noticeable. A quick study of the wreckage still to be moved and Khalad thought he had found the problem: a rather worrying roof beam sticking out from where Berit's chest would be.


	12. Chapter 12

**_once again many thanks to ashtynquuen for being a wonderful beta_**

* * *

 _Look on the bright side_ Berit thought to himself yet again, _at least the sun isn't my eyes like last time I died. And I'm not actually dead._

He would have laughed if he could: finding it suddenly funny. No, the sun wasn't in his eyes. He hadn't seen the sun, or the sky, or further than a few inches in … how long? He didn't know. Berit found it hard to keep track of the passage of time here in the close dark. There might have been a time when the darkness was slightly less dense, when he felt warm instead of shudderingly cold, maybe when tendrils of light had tried to creep through the tangle of wood and stone that surrounded him: but it had been chased away. What may have been a rain shower created temporary rivulets that made his clothes barely damp. Or maybe that had been his mind playing tricks on him.

Berit was hungry, very hungry, and so thirsty he could barely stand to think about it. The fierce heat of a raging fire had passed and now the embers radiated little warmth. He tried to use that information to guess how long he had been entombed here. Maybe it had been a day. Maybe two. Depending on how long he had been unconscious – landing had knocked him out and he had woken panicked and trapped.

Berit felt a muscle on his leg cramp again. Pinned as he was he could not shift or stretch to ease it. He forced himself to think of it as a welcome distraction from the hunger. Another spasm and twitch caused him to groan. Pinned good. Broken definitely, maybe even crushed, but Berit couldn't tell without being able to move at all. What did a crushed limb feel like anyway?

 _No, don't think about that. Stay positive._

Positive. Berit was positive his leg was broken – the sharp stab and tingling numbness from the limb would guarantee it. When the floor had inevitably collapsed and taken him with it the first thing he felt amongst the rush of air around him was the dull _snap_ and Berit unfortunately could imagine what further damage stone raining down upon a body could do.

Raining. If it would only rain again maybe he would be able to turn his head enough to drink a little as at ran past him.

 _No, don't think about the thorns in your throat._

Berit wouldn't be able to turn his head anyway – some other block had struck his shoulder, trapping his upper body in a very uncomfortable sideways position and causing an ache that spread across his entire back. Fractured shoulder blade he had concluded. It had also caught him on the back of the head, but the throbbing behind his eyes had lessened considerably, so that was another positive.

Not for the first time Berit wished that as Sparhawk had already messed with fate he could have gone a step further and made him unable to be injured at all. Then he would still be stuck, but he wouldn't be stuck under here feeling his breaks and bruises and bleeding and burns in every strung out second, just like anyone else would.

That wasn't even the worst of it though, he would have been able to endure a couple of broken bones. The agony stemmed from his chest and where a supporting beam, sharpened to a spear point, had pierced through his skin and nestled deep inside. Whatever other damage had been done the wood had definitely scraped a lung, blood pooling inside with every unlikely heartbeat, creating a pressure from the inside to match that which pushed down on top of him.

Each time Berit took a struggling breath a little more fluid flowed, a little more pain blossomed deep inside and the next breath became just that little more difficult. He had tried to call out for rescue in the beginning but that had not been possible for a while now. How long could he go on before his chest had completely filled? What would happen when his body was completely deprived of air? Berit desperately didn't want to find out: Khalad and Talen were his hope against that. They were coming. They had to be coming. They would dig him out. They had to be. They were coming. They had to be coming.

 _Please come soon._ Berit felt like a child again, wishing very hard, praying to a God that didn't reply. Never to him anyway. Most Church Knights held a strange mix of faith and pragmatism that came from representing one God while using the magic of another, something that Berit had not thought of too closely. He had not had many religious experiences, at least not in his own faith, and they didn't count. Unless you counted the day he died on the sand. Was that emptiness waiting for everyone after they had lived their allotted days?

 _Don't think about that._

Berit felt a pull in his body, he knew it now as a sign that the world was trying to pull him back into the only shape it recognised as him, but the trapping wood and stone wouldn't let that happen. There was no room for his bones to shift and reknit so they didn't and they just hurt the same now as days ago when he fell.

Maybe it had been years though and he had just forgotten. The passage of time meant nothing in the still silence, where the only references were darkness and pain. It disassociated the young knight from the real, solid world in such a similar way as that other place had done. That feeling of absence still haunted his dreams and filled his cups with the strongest wine he could find. The drinking didn't chase away the feeling completely but his nights were more peaceful.

Feeling dust in his eyes Berit blinked heavily but succeeded only in causing white lights to flash in front of his vision. The lights flowed into each other, formed and reformed intricate patterns against an ebony backdrop. When they swirled Berit felt dizzy, when they shrank Berit felt he was atop some high tower. Sometimes they formed faces and sometimes creeping monsters. Berit felt fear rise up when they covered his entire vision and a strange loss when they dwindled to nothing. The shapes became a welcome distraction as confusing as they were, and Berit found himself following their antics in a dazed wonder.

It wasn't until the sound and feeling of stone being shifted filtered down to the depths he was laying in that he was drawn out of his musings. The pressure on his body somehow managed to increase, pinching tight. Just when he thought it would burst him it abruptly lifted: as did the piece that rested on his shoulder. He closed his eyes tight against the cold numbness that crept across his back and the sudden light. He could _feel_ the bone in his back shifting slightly, being pulled back in-to place and it was intensely nauseating.

"You fool." That would be Khalad, at last! Berit would forgive the remark, would forgive anything right know if he would just start digging again. The cool air was as refreshing as spring rain, but it underscored the pain that he had been drifting away from.

"I'm going to try and move this beam first." Khalad said after a short period of inspection.

 _Get on with it_ Berit wanted to yell. Relief being so close now he could no longer distract himself and he felt consumed by the pain in his chest and shoulder. He wasn't even able to speak though, instead letting out only a low moan.

"Khalad, that's... that's not going to be a good idea." That must be Talen protesting. "Look at it." His voice was low, but it carried. "If we pull it out he'll bleed out within minutes."

Berit could hear Khalad take a few paces to be nearer his brother. _No no_ _no_ _no – come on, just move it._

 _"_ Talen" Khalad was saying "I know this is going to sound very trite but I want you to listen very carefully. This is going to be all right but you have to trust me and do as I say. We need to move that beam, and then get the rest of the rubble off him and I don't want to delay any more. We will worry about the rest afterwards."

"But..."

"I promise you will understand, but that conversation has to wait – will you help me?"

"Of course."

They moved back and positioned themselves either side of the piece that has speared him, jostling it only slightly as they grabbed hold.

"On three – one, two, three." They lifted and Berit felt blood flow from his chest. For a few frantic moments he feared that nothing would happen but then he shook as the healing overtook him and the wound almost snapped closed. Berit heaved and gasped and coughed, expelling blood from his now intact lungs and the pain thankfully faded even as he drew his first easy breathes.

"Thanks." he managed, voice cracking from his parched throat. "Could you move the rest, my leg is trapped." Berit said, at last opening his eyes to see two concerned faces peering down at him. Khalad's was an interesting mix of concerned, exasperated and relieved while Talen looked completely stunned and staring.

Khalad gave his brother a shove and within minutes all the debris had been cleared and the rapid healing of his crushed limb left Berit shuddering but pain free. He took the hand Khalad proffered him, and allowed himself to be levered to his feet. He was a bit unsteady but largely able to stand on his own.

"What... what sort of spell was that?" Talen asked hesitantly, looking him up and down. Berit realised that he must look a state – clothing burnt and torn, covered in soot and blood, smelling of smoke and sweat – as he stood somewhat precariously in what he saw was a large pile of rubble.

A group of townsfolk were standing in awed silence, no doubt surprised to see him fit enough to stand. How shocked would they be to find out that apart from a deep thirst and nagging hunger he was actually feeling ok? Berit was sure he looked worse enough for wear with all the appropriate bloodstains, but didn't want them to get a chance at a closer inspection or spread the rumours that would surely result.

"Find me a private place to talk and a glass of water." He added croakingly "and I will tell you all about it."


	13. Chapter 13

_many thanks again to the wonderful ashtynqueen_

* * *

 _2 summers later._

Khalad laughed, loud and genuine and long. This day had been a long time coming and something that he had not even dreamed of when he was young. Earlier he had waited with bated breath kneeling before the Preceptor to accept his judgement and find out if his entry into the order would become official. He was expecting the objections to come, shouted from among the congregated Knights that were observing the ceremony as was traditional and their right: he was too young (though not the youngest to be Knighted), too uneducated (though took more care to learn than some), was not lordly enough. That one he wouldn't have been able to argue as he was not born into the gentry and the ink on his newly granted title still a little damp.

He had made efforts to integrate with his fellow novices but Khalad always had the lingering feeling that the others doubted his worth – that he didn't deserve a place among them. When the ceremony hall fell silent, and Sparhawk continued on to pronounce his admittance, Khalad thought that maybe that was only the projected shadow of his own self-doubt.

So Khalad laughed and joked and raised many a tankard in celebration that night – if any of his brothers in arms though that it was inappropriate for him to get a little tipsy then they wisely kept it to themselves. Around midnight he and twenty of the youngest knights left the chapterhouse to 'patrol' the local taverns, and 'inspect' their wares. Few had his head for drink though so most stumbled back to their bunks well before the sun rose and it was left to Berit to help Khalad do the same.

Berit who had been there the entire evening to make sure his cup was well filled. Berit who had helped Khalad into the heavy ceremonial robes that tradition dictated was his uniform for the day. Berit who had supported him in the last couple of years – been a patient and encouraging sounding board for any frustrated rant or self-depreciating diatribe that Khalad cared to give voice to – was now giving a more physical form of support.

"I can walk yaaaa know," Khalad insisted.

"Of course. The road is just uneven." Khalad couldn't see Berit's face clearly, but surely he wasn't grinning as they lurched along the road.

"Yes, unev'n." Khalad agreed as he stumbled slightly. Berit gripped a little harder on his arm.

"They thought they cou'd out drink me. Ha! They've been closeted in training f'r years." Khalad scoffed.

"So have you."

"Shhhhhure. But I had practice before." In the long years before, when he was a simple squire, not even a novice Knight. Those simple years were behind him now: a much more complex future had dawned.

Berit gave a chuckle at that, and steered them away from a muddy puddle. When had this road gotten so rocky? And so _long_?

"Have you been practicing? Not seen you much. Suuuuurprised you kept up," Khalad slurred only slightly, feeling more than seeing Berit shrug, the road now spinning.

"I was keeping an eye on you. Celebrating this evening is fine – expected even. Drowning in the gutter because you've drunk yourself unconscious is definitely not."

"So you were babysitting me?" Khalad exclaimed, offended. He took a step away to make his displeasure known but had to be reeled back in by his friend when he leant too far, balance abandoning him.

"Of course not. Just protecting the Order's reputation."

They were lurching through the gate of the chapterhouse now. Or Khalad was lurching and Berit was trying to keep him falling on his face like the good friend he was.

Berit paused them both, and then turned them away from the long staircase that would lead to the longer corridor and second staircase they would have to navigate till they got to Khalad's room. Instead he guided the newest Knight into the bunk house that acted as infirmary if needed, storage area if needed, and sleeping quarters for anyone too drunk to use the stairs.

"I think here should do for tonight, you are too heavy a lump to carry any further." Khalad was deposited onto one of the cots. He was about to protest when his head spun once again and his stomach clenched. The thought of even another step was too much, as was nodding in agreement.

Khalad let himself be pushed over, feeling the thin pillow cool and comfortable beneath his cheek.

"Just a nap." He muttered. "Then I'll go t' b'd."

"Sure you will. I'll see you in the morning." Came Berit's voice from somewhere in the spinning darkness that closed in around him.

It wasn't the morning when Berit next saw Khalad. That wasn't a surprise as the sun had been creeping to the horizon when Khalad had been at last been coaxed away from the beer. The sun was waning when Berit found Khalad sitting in a shady corner of the courtyard, damp cloth against his forehead and flagon of – hopefully –water at his feet.

"How was your first morning as a Knight?" Berit asked cheerfully sitting down next to the man who gave him a red-eyed baleful glare. That was answer enough, and Berit didn't bother to hide his smile.

"Well, if you didn't insist on buying a round for everyone there, maybe you wouldn't be in such a state."

Khalad groaned. "I did do that, didn't I?"

"If nothing else you have cemented your reputation as a generous man who can handle his drink." Khalad groaned again. "Don't worry, I don't think I stood up at all the day after I was Knighted – I think Kalten was putting more than beer in my mug."

Strange to think that being too sick to sit up was a fond memory but, yes, the headaches and twisting stomach had not been able to distract him from the intense pride of joining this brotherhood. Getting blindingly drunk was seen as a rite of passage as much as receiving spurs or sword.

They sat in a companionable silence for some minutes, Berit taking in the bustle of the courtyard and Khalad taking intermittent sips of water. A group of novices were mucking out the stables while others were undertaking careful archery practice. Several men patrolled the wall – despite the peaceful times this was a military order and daily life reflected that.

"You are looking annoyingly perky considering you were out all night too. At least I think you were. You were, right? Some of it's hazy." Khalad said at last.

"I was there," Berit murmured absently, as he watched a rider approach the gate guards. "I just don't seem to get hangovers any more. Or drunk."

"You can't get drunk, since..." Khalad trailed off.

"Yes. It's just one of those things." Berit tried to brush it off.

"And have you had much cause to want to get drunk lately?"

 _Berit remembered standing in the middle of a forest clearing, trying not to choke on the cloud of death that hung in the air. He had found cause of the children's disappearance and it was not a happy sight. The men who had committed this atrocity surrounded him, clubs at the ready. They were going to make sure that he didn't walk out of there to spread word of their crimes, to bring the force of the town watch or the Church onto their doorstep. They were going to try. They would have succeeded if he had been anyone else. He had ordered many beers that night trying to drown that memory, those little bodies and the larger ones he left behind, but each drink was just as ineffectual as the last._

"Not really." He said instead.

"Yeah? I know I've had my head in training and studying but I _have_ noticed you've been out of the Chapterhouse a lot. Sparhawk been sending you anywhere nice?"

 _The den had been abandoned for several weeks at this point, the brigands who had occupied it had moved on long before Berit arrived in the area. The Queen had been fielding complaints about safety on the roads for some time, and the local lords were only satisfied when she had promised to send aid. They hadn't expected just one Knight to turn up but the lords were wise enough not to show their disappointment to Berit's face. In truth the order could only spare one man at the moment, never having been as numerous as rumour_ _suggested. Word had got out that enforcement was on the way and any number of Church Knights held such a fearsome reputation that many criminals in the area had moved on. Berit had spent weeks riding round the countryside hunting a prey that was no longer there, huddling in cold damp caves or camps that had been stripped of anything useful. This day was no different – rain running down his back, feet cold, fire refusing to start, no fresh food for the last three days..._

"Not really."

"And apart from that you're keeping out of trouble?"

 _"_ Of course."Berit said.

Khalad just looked at him, gaze penetrating despite the slight crease to his brow and bagged eyes that showed the effects of the drinking.

"As much as I can anyway." That seemed to satisfy Khalad, for his expression softened.

"Just... take care of yourself. When you are out doing whatever it is Sparhawk has you doing."

"I do my best."

"Why don't I believe that?" Khalad muttered into his mug.

"Because you are too cynical for your own good."

"Well, I fancy a change of clothes now I can stand up without swaying." Khalad proved his point by rising slowly to his feet. "Will you still be here when I've washed up or will Sparhawk have sent you away by then?"

"Well. He can't send me anywhere if he can't find me. I'll just have to hide from him for a bit." Berit smiled, clapping Khalad on the shoulder.

"Then you go find us some breakfast."

"More like supper."

"I haven't eaten today so it's breakfast." Khalad insisted, serious. Berit gave in.

"Fine, breakfast. And we can talk about what Sparhawk might have in store for both of us."

"I'll be about half an hour?"

"I'll be right here."

Was he staying out of trouble? Berit pondered as Khalad strode away to make himself more presentable. In a manner of speaking.

 _Berit squinted at the burley_ _man, trying to judge his reach, his speed, his strength. He hadn't really stopped to think when the man grabbed at the tavern server: her body language and the slap she delivered made it clear that his attentions were repeated and unwanted. When the thug returned the slap Berit had launched to his feet and positioned himself between the two as any Knight – hell any decent man – would do, the inn fell silent._

 _"Get out my way." The man growled._

 _"No."_

 _The man tensed and three others – just as large– stepped up behind him._

 _"Move. While her and me go somewhere to have a little talk." His leer made it quite clear what that meant._

 _"That's not going to happen." Berit said, even more convinced he was doing the right thing._

 _One man at the back drew his belt knife._

 _"You think this is wise, son?" said Burley._

 _"I'm not your son, friend. And I think you should walk away before you embarrass yourself." That was all bluster of course. There was no way that Berit could take down four men without getting seriously hurt himself. He was hoping that someone had recognised_ _the Church tabard on his horse and would whisper in the man's ear causing him to slink off into the darkness where he belonged. No such luck. Berit wished that he had worn his armour_ _after all but chainmail would just have to do._

 _Burley made the first move – lunging forward with a swiftly drawn belt knife in his hand. Berit easily dodged back and to one side, the swing going wide. Berit grabbed the man's wrist and twisted with a harsh squeeze causing the man to cry out and drop the knife: broken bones probably. Berit didn't have time to follow up as the second man was barreling in, his longer blade swinging wildly. Drawing his own belt knife Berit directed the man's weapon away from him. He could have drawn his sword but there wasn't really the room he needed to use it properly in this crowded inn and he didn't actually want to kill these men, just give them cause to regret._

 _A few more ineffectual slashes and the man was getting frustrated, but his two friends had at this point stepped up beside him. They shared a grin when their slow thoughts told them that three against one was pretty good odds. Berit glanced to the side and could see that though many people were watching no-one looked to be stepping up to help, not even the innkeeper who was hovering in the background._

 _He couldn't take three at the same time, he would have to separate them a bit._

 _In a quick move he passed his knife to his off hand and grabbed a nearby stool. Putting as much strength as possible into the move he swung it heavily against the nearest man's leg. That put him off balance enough that a firm kick to the same spot sent him staggering in a crunch of bones and stream of swearwords – he certainly wouldn't be running any time soon._

 _Berit saw the second man start another attack, but used his momentum to block the man's arm and followed up with two fierce punches to the face and one to the throat that had him gargling._

 _Berit hadn't forgotten the fourth man: he realised_ _he had his back to him but didn't have time to turn before he felt the knife slide into his side, just under the arm that was raised in a punch and one of the few places his chainmail didn't cover. The man grinned and twisted the knife cruelly as Berit gasped._

Shit _._

 _A shove knocked Berit to the floor where he lay gasping, the movement pulling against the knife still buried in his flesh. He grit_ _his teeth against the wave of pain – the wound was deep and blood was flowing freely. The man who had stabbed him waited for the nod of approval from the leader before giving him a swift kick to the ribs, eliciting a strangled grunt. Despite watering eyes Berit could see that Burley was clearly furious. He stopped clutching his injured wrist and stooped to pick up his own dropped knife._

 _"Well now, son. Looks like you started something you couldn't finish. I can help there."_

 _This was the bit Berit hated. He steeled himself and grabbed at the knife under his arm, pulling in one smooth motion. He didn't have time to wait for the wave of healing to pass, so he was heaving himself to his feet as the trembling overtook him._ ** _That_** _made him slightly dizzy, but he managed to stand up and stay there._

 _"I told you, I'm not your son." Berit growled, and attacked before anyone could assess his condition properly. He pressed his advantage – that he wasn't moving like a man who had just taken a very serious and possibly mortal wound – and he was now with a knife in each hand. The one who had unwisely disarmed himself by leaving his knife buried in Berit's chest went down first, trying to stem the sudden flow of blood from his own chest wound. The second man was still down with a leg that wasn't quite pointing the right way and the third was on hands and knees struggling with rattling breaths._

 _That just the left Burley who wasn't giving up despite seeing three of his bested._

Persistent. _Berit thought, even as the man made a run at him. But he was clearly not used to fighting with his off hand: his footwork was wrong and he was overreaching so it was a simple matter to dodge to the right, jab him in the ribs with the hilt of a knife. Another three jabs in quick succession to the man's kidneys and he was collapsing with a low groan that got louder as he inadvertently put weight on his injured wrist._

 _Berit paused and looked for any signs they were going to be stupid enough to get back up. Didn't look like it. Berit took a deep breathe, ribs now moving easily again but knew the pounding of his heart couldn't be controlled as easily._

 _Excited babbling from the watching patrons emphasised_ _the silent vigil they had held before. He lowered his knife – and dropped the stranger's - when the innkeeper stepped forward with his hands raised as a sign he was unarmed._

 _"Well, I must say, that was a fine show my boy, a fine show!" The man beamed. "We've been having a fair bit of trouble from ol_ _' Garth and his friends these last few weeks, but it costs so much to get someone on the door to keep those ruffians out."_

 _So they had been making trouble for a while and this stingy bastard hadn't wanted to go to the expense of keeping his people - who had rightly made themselves scarce when the fight began – or_ _patrons safe._

 _"I hope everyone here knows how much you value their health and their custom." Berit spat in disgust, feeling under his arm. As expected_ _there was no sign of injury though his undershirt was heavy and damp with rapidly cooling blood. He straightened with a sigh of relief._

 _The innkeeper was put off the stride of his gushing, looking confused not to be congratulated on his great fiscal sense._

 _"Do you need that looking at? You're bleeding quite_ _a bit."_

 _"Just a scratch." Berit muttered. He drained the last ale from his mug and snatched his cloak: still draped across the bench where he had put it before he began his interrupted meal. He wanted to go change his shirt and leave this place before people started to work out exactly where that blow had landed, how much blood he had lost and how he should be unconscious or worse right now._

 _"Next time, sort out your own problems rather than leaving it to your customers." He shouted over his shoulder as he strode into the night._

He had never gone looking for trouble - he wasn't that sort of person – but there was something about being a man in armour under the banner of the Church that seemed to attract those in need. Or those in need of a good kicking. That hadn't been the only time that Berit had walked into something bigger than he should have. Didn't he have a duty to help where he could though? That was part of his oaths, the same oaths that Khalad had spoken yesterday. No, his duty hadn't changed but his ability to carry out that duty had.

"Sir Berit? I have a message," the recently arrived rider, thick mud on his boots evidence of a long hard journey, held out a tightly rolled scroll.

Berit took it hesitantly and nodded a dismissal to the young courier in the direction of the kitchen. It was a heavy parchment tied with a fine blue twine, his name written boldly in familiar handwriting.

"It's from the monastery." Berit muttered softly to himself, rolling it slightly in his hand.

While many there viewed him as a theological oddity, Berit knew the fine handwriting on the outside of the scroll belonged to Vador, one of the monks who had been most interested in the physical aspects of his condition. Pondering the nature of the universe was all very well but Berit was a more practical man by nature and the practicalities interested him more. He had spent more time talking with Vador than all of the others combined, and had come to look forward to their late night conversations despite the monk's tendency to call him a heretic.

Even a few weeks ago he would have cracked the wax immediately on this scroll just like he had on the ones that had come before, keen to discover which titbit of knowledge Vador had for them this time. The frantic urgency that had filled him in that first year had receded and Berit had found a great deal of satisfaction when Sparhawk sent him out to achieve what others couldn't.

"Well, open it then." Khalad prompted. Berit hadn't even noticed he had returned, and now Khalad was looming over him.

After Khalad and Talen had found out about his... change through unfortunate circumstance Berit had made the long journeys across the world to tell his friends in far flung places. The conversations were, in places, difficult and all required some level of practical demonstration. Bevier had insisted on leading a prayer for him while Ulath had laughed, given him a stunning thump across the back and called for more wine. But Berit had felt lighter with each friend he visited – often completing an official 'errand' on the way - and knew that there would be no more shocking reveals to those he cared most about.

It was never so clear as now - sitting here in the last of the day's warmth amongst the quiet bustle of the chapterhouse, seeing his friend achieve the first step on the path to his true potential, the reminders of the first day he woke with the title Knight – that it was time to stop questioning and start living again.

"I thought you wanted answers. That's why you ran off to them in the first place." Khalad said, as Berit continued to hesitate. Khalad was still disparaging of the monks, but at least the hangover was going to stop him picking another fight to spoil this lovely day.

"Yeeeees." Berit said slowly, a moment of clarity descending on him and bringing with it a form of peace. "I did. Because I thought there was none." Berit sat back, looking up at the clouds streaming past the setting sun and pushed the scroll deep into his pocket.

Khalad frowned. "Did that make sense in your head? Because it didn't when you said it out loud. At least I don't think it did."

"I'm taking your advice: being grateful for what I have been given."

Khalad just gave a grunt at that – for he could hardly argue against his own good advice. "Took you long enough."

"I never said I was a fast learner."

"Are you sure?" Khalad looked at him seriously. "Don't ignore that message out of some sort of bravado because you think it's what I want you to do."

"I won't. I will read it. Just not today. Now, how about that breakfast?"


	14. Chapter 14

Khalad was almost completely convinced that filling out paperwork was the sole duty of the Preceptor of a militant order. Sparhawk hadn't told him this when he first suggested that Khalad was the man to lead the Pandion's into a new age when he retired – no, he had kept that quiet until Khalad had grudgingly accepted that very few people had the patience or practicality needed to manage this hot headed lot. He hadn't realised what he had let himself in for until it was too late. So now he was sitting with a pile of requisition requests, the bill from the baker, status reports from the other chapterhouses and the latest missive from the stonemasons about repair to the battlements, all vying for his attention. He somewhat bitterly hoped Sparhawk was enjoying his retirement.

The scratch of his pen was interrupted by a knock at his study door, and the novice that was his runner for the day poked his head round.

"What is it Jayl?"

"You have a visitor my Lord?" the young man said.

"Was that a question? Do I or do I not?" Khalad replied – he had taught his messengers that he valued clarity above everything. Anything else was a waste of time.

"Ummmm yes, you do." Jayl still hadn't come fully into the room and was holding the door partially closed. "But he says that he is Sir Berit."

That bought a smile to Khalad's face. "At last, let him in then," and Khalad gladly stood from his desk to greet his friend, throwing down his work and stretching his back.

Jayl stepped out the way and allowed a somewhat travel worn Berit to enter the room, though the boy still wore a doubtful expression and was glancing between the two men.

"At last you have decided to read my messages then? I had begun to think you were avoiding me." Khalad said as he welcomed Berit in.

"I wasn't avoiding you," Berit said, removing his cloak and sitting heavily in a chair by the fire, stressing the last word very slightly. "You've kept me busy and I've found even more to do for myself."

Khalad had kept him busy, it was true. There was always work for someone as trustworthy and competent as Berit – some things that were best kept quiet, some things that didn't require a lot of man power. And some things that would be too risky to send anyone else. Berit hadn't been returning to the Chapterhouse between visits though – in the last five years he had entered the gates only half a dozen times and Khalad thought it might have been eighteen months since he had seen his friend.

"What sort of thing?" Khalad handed over a cup of wine, leaning against the fireplace with his own.

"I've learnt a lot – there's an ancient religion in the south that has some interesting ways with magic. It isn't too hard either."

Khalad knew Berit had been investigating other gods and their magic, but learning it was something else completely. Using magic was a form of worship – the god in question granting a prayer from the faithful and as such Church Knights received special dispensation from the Elene God to go outside their own religion at all. That wouldn't be the problem, however. "And is Aphrael happy with you learning other magics? You know how, err, possessive she can get."

"I haven't exactly asked her permission, but it's not up to her." Berit shrugged.

"Going to ask forgiveness instead?"

"Maybe. Maybe not even that." Berit seemed on edge, a tension in his shoulders and his smile was small and strained. "I think she's been avoiding me recently."

"Has she cut you off?" Khalad frowned.

"No, the Styric magic still works. But I haven't seen or heard from her directly in years." That was somewhat worrying, as Aphrael took a personal interest in everybody that called on her and would rarely let one slip away. It was some sort of points scoring to the Gods. Khalad put that snippet to the back of his mind for a moment.

"So, is it just learning heretical magic that has meant you have been too busy to come and see your friend?" Too busy to obey anything but a direct order from his Preceptor either and Khalad had been reluctant to issue that order – to solidify that boundry in their relationship.

"I did suggest we meet last year." Berit said, looking up defensively.

"Yes. Fifty miles away. You knew I wouldn't be able to make it."

Another knock at the door and another novice arrived – platter of bread, cheese and soup in hand.

"You haven't had any lunch my Lord and we thought your guest might like to eat too." he said as he put the tray on a nearby table.

"Thank you, that was very considerate." Khalad said, pleased at their manners.

The novice gave a small bow, not making eye contact but flicking what he probably thought were discrete glances Berit's way until he scurried back out into the corridor, a rustle of whispers being cut off when the door closed.

Berit sighed and Khalad frowned at the door. Maybe they needed more lessons on politeness after all. Or at least discretion. "What was all that about?"

"Everyone's been like that, luckily I managed to avoid anyone I know too well on the journey it – just a few novices. Though the stable master gave me a double take." Berit said, taking a deep gulp of his wine. "It's why I didn't want to come back. Look at me Khalad."

"I'm looking."

"Look properly."

Khalad tried, but didn't know what he was meant to be seeing. Berit was dressed in normal travelling clothes – sturdy trousers and a warm shirt underneath high quality chainmail. He didn't take his armour with him on the road as it was too cumbersome to put on easily with just one person and would weigh a horse down when fast travel was needed. And it wasn't really necessary. Berit had thrown his thick wool cloak over the back of the chair, Pandion symbol embroidered over the heart. His boots were fairly new but worn in. His sword belt was resting against the wall, and his travel bags would have been taken from his horse to his room by the novice assigned to the stable.

Berit himself was looking tired but well. No sign of weight loss or illness that would be common after long periods on the road. His face was somewhat somber and weary but other than that he looked exactly the same as last time Khalad saw him.

Hang on.

Khalad stopped looking at specifics and looked at Berit as a whole, trying to see him for the first time. Thinking more carefully it had actually been nearly two years since they had last met, Khalad being too caught up in his own work forging the future he saw for the Order and happy to have someone he trusted doing what he needed out in the world. Two years since Berit had been here last, few visits before that and it had been – Kalad thought back – close to a decade since their trip to Tamuli.

Knights didn't tend to age well – too much travelling, fighting, drinking put lines on their face and stiffness in their step early if more serious injury didn't claim them. Jayl hadn't believed that Berit was who he said. It seemed that others also noticed something unusual while Khalad had seen what he expected to - nothing more and nothing less.

Khalad knew that Berit must be over thirty: the blessing of being both fresh faced and undeniably handsome would cause him to age well, but surely by now he should have lost the look of a youth of twenty.

"What the hell Berit." Khalad whispered as he at last cottoned on to the wrongness the others had been picking up: that this man did not look old enough to have helped defeat the dark Zemoch God fifteen years before.

Berit gave him a satisfied nod, and fished into his pocket.

"I thought something might be wrong because of a few comments I had last time I was here, so I finally opened this message – the one I received the day after you were Knighted from the monastery at Bagat" Berit handed over the small scroll that was worn from being unrolled and rerolled – it had been read repeatedly and often.

"I knew it was going to get more noticeable, I didn't know how to deal with it so I stayed away. I still don't know how to deal with it."

Khalad read:

"Heretic, " he began

Khalad raised an eyebrow.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Berit explained, "They called me that jokingly. Well, half jokingly at least. They didn't hold my so-called heresy against me and I gave the same courtesy. "

Khalad continued.

"I have enjoyed the discourse you bought to our door. After many delightful arguments we have reached a consensus. I will concede to Brother Scalveer that aging is an injury, like any other, that will no longer affect you. I will be happy to revise this and rub his face in it if you are able to present me a with a single strand of hair gone grey, but I fear that will not happen in either of our lifetimes. Or in yours, however long that may be.

If you wish to visit again please do, we have many more chores for you.

Blessings (that I know you will refuse) to you.

Brother Gund."

Khalad turned the paper round, as if looking for something on the back. "This is a joke right? They can't actually..."

"No joke. I've yet to see any evidence that they are wrong – you've seen their" Berit gestured in the vague direction of the door "reactions. You've looked for yourself. I haven't had a sustained injury since the day in the desert and I don't look like someone who has been Knighted for a decade and a half. They think this is permanent. Forever. Eternity."

"I haven't been ill or sickly. I can sleep but don't have to. I get hungry but don't feel weak if I haven't eaten. I didn't drink for a week and it wasn't pleasant, but - " Berit shrugged, trailing off and Khalad decided he didn't want to know how his friend had discovered that. "It's all habit that feels good, but I don't think is necessary anymore. I'm not going to get stiff knees or an aching back or lose my hearing or sight."

If they were living in a children's story Khalad would be rejoicing and jealous. To live forever, to stay young forever, to save the princess from the wicked witch and live together happily ever after, those things would make a child happy. When death steals your loved ones away in ways you are too young to understand removing that weakness is a natural wish to solve all your sorrows.

Khalad had always been too cynical to believe in the happy endings his mother tried to tell. Years as Sparhawk's squire and more as a Knight had sharpened those edges further. He knew what it was to lose a father and to come back from a battle with rider less horses. He knew what it was to give the orders that emptied those saddles, and feel the void it left inside.

His mother was getting on in years now, relying more on the farm hands Khalad ensured she had the funds for to do the hard work and spending more time in the kitchen due to a problem with her chest. Fear of the day he might hear of her passing was a long shadow that touched him most when he had time for quiet contemplation. Each time Talen was part of a contingent that he sent on patrol he had to give himself a stern talking to, to allow his half-brother into danger.

There were other sorts of stories – darker ones that weren't told to children – where wishes were twisted and dreams were corrupted. In those curses weren't lifted by the end of the day and few lived at all and never happily. Into one of those they seemed to have strayed. A youngster might thing it a fine thing to live and be young forever, but Khalad's thoughts drifted to the inevitability of seeing everyone you would come to know and come to love grow old and die around you. He had lost enough friends in the last decade to know a sliver of how difficult that would be.

Looking at Berit, Khalad could see he knew it too – there was a deep sadness in his eyes and a weight on his shoulders.

"What can I do?" Khalad asked gruffly, thinking of the library, the libraries of the other Orders and the possible answers they may hold.

"Keep me busy."

"What do you mean?"

"I tried drinking first - spent a lot of nights drinking to forget and it only makes my purse lighter and my mood darker. I want to be doing things. I _need_ to be doing things. I can't just sit around the Chapterhouse. I can't get... I want to be doing what good I can, and I don't want time to dwell."

"Are you going to talk to Sparhawk? Have you told him?"

"I haven't what's the point? He can't do anything about it and he is having some well deserved peace with his family. He will find out soon enough. Everyone will, sooner or later. I can't avoid _everyone_ forever."

Forever. That took on new meaning now and Khalad suppressed a shudder.

"Do you think anyone can help?" Khalad thought of all the wonders he had seen and all the things he suspected might be out there. Gods and Deamons and magic and sorcery made the world much more complex than a simple farmer and squire thought he would have to deal with and made the impossible not just possible but run of the mill.

"Only if I find that place where Bhelium was when the world was created, The Origin I've heard it called. Then there's a chance, just a chance. I will be looking for it – I'll travel as far as I need to - but I need other distractions too because it could be anywhere. - at the bottom of the ocean or deep inside a moutain." Berit was slumped and despondent, maybe thinking of how long that search might take. Or that he would _have_ that time.

Khalad thought of the pile of work on his desk. The reports that needed investigating, pleas for help that needed answering, places where the Church had not shown their face in many years. There was a lot of important work to do. But nothing more important than helping the man in front of him.

Berit leant forward, pointing a finger, suddenly agitated. "I'm not going to be here every five minutes though, to be gawped at and gossiped about, not even on orders from my Preceptor."

"Got a sudden objection to your friends?"

"I've got a sudden objection to be being stared at like an exotic animal. It makes my skin crawl."

That was understandable. Berit had lots of friends in the order who looked forward to his return, but no doubt that those conversations would become more awkward, and questions would be asked. Although Khalad had long liked to bemoan the average intelligence of nobility they weren't actually _that_ stupid. Berit would be forced to share the whole thing with the whole Order, or lie to his brothers-in-arms which would be an insult to them and Berit's own honour.

"I'm sorry I pressured you into coming. I'll help however I can." And damn it he would. Khalad didn't know how long it would take before some sort of rumours would fly and he would have to come up with some explanation for the people in Berit's life as to why he wasn't ageing, but hopefully there would be some time. Maybe even enough time for Berit to fix this, or for him to be more comfortable with sharing. They were a brotherhood after all, a family.

Berit waved away the apology and gave a genuine, relaxed smile for the first time.

"You weren't to know. And it _is_ good to be home, even if it is just for a little while."

 ** _But that was then…_**


	15. Chapter 15

**And this is now.**

Berit threw down the newspaper in disgust. He really should know to stop buying these things: how long did it take him to learn? This was evidence of the very same flaw in most of humanity: time and again the same patterns repeated. Once more he was reading about a country trying to control the thoughts of its people: he had seen where that led several times before. He stood to get a drink, no longer amazed by the concept of fresh clean water running into every home on demand.

If it wasn't war the newspaper was full of murder, fraud, negligence and other worse crimes – it had been better when Berit hadn't known so much of it existed. Standing in his kitchen, glass of water in hand and thinking of the ugliness in the world Berit was putting off his next project. He thought of them as projects but in truth they were no more than minor diversions: something or anything to fill the endless days.

He had learned to play musical instruments that were long broken, to speak languages now all but forgotten. He had studied what was once known as the natural sciences before realising he was never going to apply the knowledge and tried to return to his previous state of archaic ignorance. He had travelled the world and seen wonders now reduced to ruins and dust: places recorded on no modern map and known only in fables. He kept away from 'ancient history' these days, finding the errors far too aggravating and that so-called experts seldom liked to be corrected.

Gazing out of the kitchen window into the small back yard, Berit pondered: little amazed him these days but it did still surprise him how anybody went about their fleeting lives with any sense of purpose or curiosity considering how pointless they were. From his perspective anyway.

The truth was that it had been years since Berit had felt any real motivation for anything and he was traversing into a bleak future. What could he do about it? Nothing, squat, naff all. He had no agency, no control over his life or his death and he had been stewing in pointless inactivity since the day he died. Or just afterwards. His life had been over long ago and all he had left was this rage and an echo of purpose that was fading with each passing year, all meaning had been stolen from him...

Berit realised his thoughts had wandered into dangerous territory when he felt a sharp pain in his hand. He actually had to look down to work out what had happened, so used to random pains had he become – he had gripped the glass hard enough for it to shatter. He pulled the shards from his palm, dropping them into the sink to follow the path of dark red droplets sliding towards the plughole. He dispassionately watched the slashes seal themselves up, barely feeling the icy healing. He would have to be careful: he'd had somber thoughts before and they had taken him very close to a Darkness that scared him. If he let that anger consume him his actions would disappoint a lot of people. They weren't around to disappoint any more but he still had a sliver of pride that kept him from descending to that place. For now.

Berit opened a tap, washed his hands clean of blood and reached for another glass when he felt _it._

 _It_ wasn't unusual. _It_ happened from time to time – a shiver that travelled down his spine and flipped his stomach. _Damn promises._ He didn't want this reminder right now. Then _it_ happened again. And again. And again. That happened rarely, usually only when there had been an accident. Again. More. The shiver constant enough to make him tremble and stumble as he ran from the kitchen to the room with the map, scrabbling to flick on the light switch.

Normally it was a large blank piece of heavy parchment laid out on a table, the four corners held down with wood that he had given up on carving. His stomach flipped as he muttered a few words and pressed his palm to the centre. From his touch, spreading outwards like spilled water was an image of the entire world, and scattered across it tiny copper lights. Some were grouped together. Some out on their own. Some were brighter and some dimmer depending on the strength of the bloodline. Once there had been many more but a war followed by a famine and then a plague had seen to most of the lives that they represented. Holding his hand on the map for long enough sometimes he would see them moving as the people travelled. He didn't used to be able to do that – horses were not nearly fast enough to show movement at this scale but these days he could watch them soar over oceans. Now they were disappearing, blinking out at an alarming rate that was reflected by each shiver he experienced.

The ones grouped together went out at the same time, followed a few moments later by one close by. Berit could identify half a dozen tracks, moving from point to point, turning out those small sparks of light.

"Damn it." He muttered. He had no idea what was going on, but could hardly stand by and watch – and feel - it. "Damn promises and meddling with things you don't understand." He said to himself, once again regretting careless words, and regretting that his sense of duty was still strong enough to pull him to act. He fixed his eyes on the point that was geographically closest to him – one that shone brighter than most. He could go to any, but it would take more effort to go further. And he hadn't actually done this in... how long? Too long.

Berit needed a few things and rifled through the drawers behind him, the image on the map beginning to fade as soon as it lost his touch. A string of green beads – the only important thing being the colour. One of the blocks of wood from the map went into his pocket, that was the natural element. A shiny coin joined it. Berit stepped towards the door to the outside, tremors causing him to lurch as he moved. "Think you know everything, you go rushing in and don't stop to think there might be consequences." he told himself.

He took a breath and began another sort of muttering: this language would be intelligible to no-one but him, even it's name buried in the detritus of history. Reaching for the door handle, green beads in the other hand, Berit finished the prayer. When he opened the door there was a film over it, blurred like an out of focus photograph but with the twisting movement of oil on water. Unfocused as it was, it was obvious that the other side of the door was not right – instead of his own front path and gate he was looking at the inside of someone else's home.

 _That was probably about right._ Berit thought and without fear – for what would be the point? – he stepped through.

* * *

Once the long forgotten fog of portal travel drained away to only faint after images Berit could take stock of where he found himself. It was a dangerous method of travel – taking a step through reality when you couldn't see properly like walking into a dark room from bright sunlight - and left you open to attack or a simple misstep. That, and it could rip your insides out if you didn't get it right.

Once his vision had cleared enough Berit took in the room. Kind of shabby: worn furniture, wallpaper peeling in the corners. The curtains were not hung properly and the dusty windows were ajar to let in both the engine noise and fumes from the road below. Dirty crockery littered the surfaces and the television fixed to one wall blared some sort of music channel.

Slobbed out on the couch was the source of that little pulse of light – from this distance Berit didn't need a map or a device – he could _feel_ the connection as an itch in his brain. The boy was staring at him, mouth agape. A reasonable reaction to seeing someone walk into his home through a wall. If this dreary place passed as a home. With some disdain Berit strode to the window, silencing the tv with a cutting gesture, and peered into the street several stories below.

"Is there anyone else here?" he asked.

The boy pushed hair back out of eyes, sitting slightly and gave a small shake of his head as if unsure whether to admit to this apparition that he was alone.

"Has anyone tried to come in? A delivery or a new neighbour? Are you expecting anyone?" There was nothing of note going on in the street – no disturbances, no unusual activity. Just the ebb and flow of a city of people going about their business with blinkers fixed firmly in place.

"Nnnn... I mean. What? H... how did you get in here? What do you want?" the boy stuttered, at last finding his voice but Berit ignored the questions as irrelevant. Instead he was hyper focused on his environment, senses straining to notice anything out of place that would signal incoming danger.

It would have helped if he knew what he was looking for but unfortunately the spell didn't work like that. He couldn't feel how the lives were being lost, only that they were being snuffed out. The trembling that had wracked him just a few minutes ago had dwindled to just the occasional shiver. He had felt enough of his own pain that he was glad to feel anyone else's as much as it would have given him some indication of what he was up against.

Two firm raps on the door snapped Berit's head round, and he gestured to the boy to stay where he was still sat on the sofa, still staring at him dumbstruck. For a few moments Berit was caught in indecision. There was no spy hole in the door so no way to see who was on the other side. There were a couple of mystical ways but they were not quick or easy. He could always open the door, but in his experience that was the shortest route to getting a knife in the gut.

His strategising proved pointless as the door exploded inwards in a shower of splinters, the boy diving for cover behind the sofa. Probably faster than he had moved in years. Berit's hand instinctively reached for a sword that wasn't there. Some habits were hard to break. Framed in the doorway and revealed by settling dust was a robed and hooded figure who stepped with purpose into the room.

"I am looking for the Bloodline" the robed man intoned from the shadows of his elaborately embroidered hood and Berit rolled his eyes at the dramatics of it all. You had to really work to get your voice to sound like that and eliminating your peripheral vision for a cool silhouette was unwise.

"Well, there's no blood line here so you owe us a door." Berit said distractedly, thinking more of exactly how the door had been shredded. There were several ways that _he_ could do it but... there was an echo of power floating in the room that Berit didn't recognise. Which wasn't possible.

Robe took his hood down, a look of surprise revealed on the weathered face, thick eyebrows frowning. "Who are you? You are not meant to be here."

"I don't think you are either or you wouldn't have needed to make such an entrance. Most people just use the door handle."

"No matter." The man said reaching into one gaping pocket the man drew something small, a dull black grip and barrel pointed right at Berit.

Instinct took over and Berit flattened his left hand, circling it twice clockwise and then forming it firmly into a fist. A green glow spread from his hand, taking the form of the shield that Berit had fixed in his mind – it started to solidify. By the time Robe pulled the trigger the spell had reached it's full size that would provide cover from shoulder to mid shin.

By the time the bullet reached him, however, the shield had started to flicker. It trembled, faltered and disappeared. It could happen sometimes if you weren't earnest enough in your prayers and the deity deemed you unworthy. Or if your gestures weren't quite as sharp as they should be because you haven't practiced for decades as some sulky protest at being ignored. For which ever reason the bullet sailed through the fading outline of the shield and took him in the chest with the dull crack of a snapped collar bone. The sharp searing pain caused Berit to stagger back a few steps into a half empty bookcase, grabbing at it to keep upright.

"Now that was interesting, son." Robe mused, moving further into the room, gliding in a way that only a floor length robe could allow. "No-one else is meant to be able to do anything like that. If I have time later we will have a conversation."

Robe swung to where the boy was hiding behind the couch, peering over the threadbare top, eyes wide at what he had just witnessed. The gun was trained on that worried brow.

Berit clenched his jaw, irrationally angry now. Maybe not irrationally at that – he had been _shot_. And that _hurt._ And now he was being _condescended_ at. And this stranger was threatening someone who clearly had no idea how to defend himself.

Robe had been careless. He thought that Berit, shot and bleeding was no longer a threat, so had moved too far into the room. He was too close. And looking in the wrong direction.

Berit pounced across the few short feet. With his right hand, his currently uninjured one, he grabbed Robe's gun hand, squeezing at a point in the wrist that cut off the nerves. Robe dropped the gun with a curse, and aimed a weighty punch into Berit's shoulder with the other. Berit gasped at the aggravating impact to his injury, seeing stars. It was only instinct that let him block an incoming jab to the jaw. He managed to combine a grab to the wrist with a solid kick to the stomach, putting Robe off balance. In a smooth movement Berit had the man's hand behind his back, dodged a headbutt and pivoted so the man was now pushed firmly up against the wall. If Robe tried to struggle too much he would break his own shoulder.

"I'm not your son, friend." Berit growled into his ear.

* * *

Korin was having a bad week. He had lost his bank card so was reduced to hunting the apartment for spare change. He was out of work – again – so there wasn't much in his bank account anyway. His cat had run off somewhere so he didn't even have that cute furball for company.

He had been despondently lying on the couch contemplating yet another meal of cheap packet noodles when a ghost had stepped through his wall. A solid looking ghost. A pissed off looking ghost, but a ghost all the same as who else could step through walls?

Then his door had exploded. And the ghost had got shot. And then _he_ was going to get shot. But the ghost saved him and was now looking even more pissed off and bleeding all over the carpet. That was his security deposit gone.

He was behind his couch because everyone knew behind the couch would protect you. Or did that only work on tv monsters and not real monsters? Did it work against ghosts? Friendly fighting ghosts? Or weirdly dressed guys with guns?

This was such a bad week.

"Why are you doing this?" the ghost was grimly asking the guy with the gun. The guy without the gun, now. There had been a gun pointing at his head!

And the door! Oh god the door! How was he going to explain that to the landlord. Korin closed his eyes tight – this really couldn't be happening, he had an inspection next week.

"This one won't matter, my brothers will have done enough" the attacker was saying.

The other one gave him a hard shove into the wall, punctuating the question "Enough for what?"

"To eliminate the blood line, weaken the seals and open the gate and the Holy One shall be free."

"Which demon?"

"Not a demon! Our God. And He shall bless us for our service once He walks the earth."

"There are no gods." The man bit off bitterly.

"But there will be. His rise will be glorious for the faithful, not so much for the unbelievers."

"Give me it's name." The man demanded, shoving the man into the wall hard enough that his head bounced.

"You will hear it soon enough. You will cry out to Him for mercy when the likes of him are gone." A gesture of his head made it clear who he meant. "Perhaps I will be the one to hear your pleas – I will look forward to it."

The air surrounding the two began to shimmer, like a road in the summer. The ghost stepped back as the shimmer intensified. Korin could feel the heat coming from that side of the room or was that his imagination?

It must be or the whole room would have caught fire by now but just to be sure he ducked further behind the couch. Heat bathed him – for real, for sure. Probably.

"Shit." The heartful swear was surprising enough to bring Korin's head up once again now the wave of heat had passed. Where just a moment ago there were two men fighting now there was just one. The ghost stared at the place where the other had been just a second ago, hands outstretched feeling the empty space and shock painted across his face.

"Where ….. where did he go?" Korin exclaimed.

"I don't know." The man shook his head "That shouldn't be possible."

"What disappearing into thin air? You walked in through the wall."

"Yes. I did." he shook his head and focused on Korin. "We should go."

"Go where?"

"Somewhere safe, this one is gone but they might be back."

"Then we should go to the police. And you need a hospital."

"I'm not going to hospital. And you will sit in a police station for hours while they decide whether you need a psychiatric evaluation if you tell them what just happened. Meanwhile if that... " he clearly couldn't find a word he liked so he settled for a harsh snort "person decides he still wants you dead he can probably get to you just as easily as he left. Unless you come with me."

Korin swallowed hard. It was true. The thought of someone shimmering into existence as he was sleeping, or taking a shower, or cooking his packet noodles made his heart pound. The stranger, still bleeding steadily, came round to his side of the couch and hauled Korin to his feet by the back of his shirt.

"Then what difference will going with you make?"

"Because I know all the places he can't get to." With his good hand clasped firmly around Korin's arm, the stranger maneuvered them both to stand just about a foot in front of the wall he had stepped out of. "Do you trust me?"

Korin looked at him. Took in the gaping shoulder wound, the slightly dated clothing. His clean shaven chin had a determined set and blue eyes were steady with confidence though his brow had a frown of impatience. This mysterious stranger had walked into his apartment somehow, got shot, had a fight with an even more mysterious stranger who had then vanished, and now expected him to go with him somewhere.

"No."

The ghost's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Smart." The man's hand moved to the back of Korin's head and with one strong movement drove his head towards the solid brick wall.


	16. Chapter 16

Korin instinctively put his hands up but didn't need that scant protection. Rather than finding his brain splattered over the wall he took two staggering steps into a room that wasn't there a second ago. A sudden nausea had him bending over and retching furiously before he could take in much more.

"It takes you that way sometimes." The ghost said. "It looks like everything is still on the inside though so just give it a few minutes."

Tears were streaming from Korin's eyes by the time he felt able to stand upright again, but he braced an arm against the wall just in case. He had thankfully been able to keep hold of his stomach contents, but it was a near thing and his throat was dry from the effort. "What was that?"

"Just a little shortcut. You think all your internal organs are still in the right place? Nothing's got... err... mixed up?"

"That's a thing that can happen?" Korin croaked, disbelieving. How would he be able to tell if his liver or a kidney or his spleen had turned around? He didn't even know where it was meant to be. He couldn't remember if he had an appendix. His heart and lungs seemed to be in the right place at least, or close enough to still be working.

"Sometimes." The man shrugged, as if it were of no importance. "You any good at removing bullets?"

Korin couldn't fail to notice the shoulder wound was still bleeding profusely, dripping down to stain the wooden floor. He shook his head in a mute 'no'.

"Don't suppose you want to learn? No matter. I'll go deal with it. Stay here." And with that he stalked away.

Now Korin was alone and feeling less likely to puke he could take in a few more details of the room. It was a living room filled with clutter and paper and a musty atmosphere usually found only in libraries or second hand bookshops. A large wooden table scattered with papers, trinkets and books took up most of the floor space. More paper was pinned to the walls: handwritten lists and pencil drawn portraits and water-coloured landscapes. Small wooden carvings were lined up on the one windowsill and several shelves held a chaotic mix of books and intricately carved boxes. The only other furniture was a high-backed chair, leather cracked and showing signs of wear on the arms.

Korin turned around to face where he had come from – a door to the outside: bolted shut. He tested the handle just to be sure but a few sharp shakes proved it was locked. Well, he hadn't had any reason to expect it to be open, had he? But doors were things you walked though, not walls. And yet he had. Apparently.

Suddenly shaky, Korin lurched to sit in the chair and leant with head in hands trying to take deep breaths. Someone had tried to kill him today. Busted down the door and aimed a gun at his head. He'd never even seen a gun before today and one had been waved in his face by a man who had then disintegrated into nothing. Then he had been teleported into some house by a mysterious stranger. It had been quite a shock.

Berit stood in the doorway, watching the young boy, unnoticed for the moment as he appeared to be on the verge of some sort of panic attack. It had taken just moments to fish the bullet from his chest – unpleasant, painful moments with a pair of forceps and a mirror – then a quick wash down and change out of his bloody shirt. The fits of shuddering had tapered off for which he was grateful, despite the implications that he might not be feeling anything because _there wasn't anything left to feel._

Now he had this _person_ in his home because he was stupid and made rash decisions. He'd let the attacker get under his skin, do the impossible and he had rounded it off by dragging the kid back here. He couldn't remember the last time he had a visitor in his home. In fact, he had never had a visitor in this building and he was damned if he could remember the current guest etiquette.

"Do you need anything?" Berit asked.

The boy started and looked up. "Some explanation? Like, what just happened? How did we get here? Where is here? What is going on? Who was that? And who the hell are you?" The questions were fired at him fast and frantic, the panic barely held a bay.

Berit took a few steps into the room so he could perch on the table, carefully moving a few items out of the way.

"I don't know who that was and I don't know what he wanted." He said, but qualified it to be slightly more honest. "Or, I know he wanted to kill you but I don't understand why. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you know why he wanted to kill you?" What was the point of asking questions if you didn't listen to the answers?

"No! It's not like I'm involved with the mafia or anything."

"I don't think he was part of the mafia." Berit scoffed.

"No. I've never heard of the mafia being able to - " the boy wiggled his fingers - " do magic or whatever."

"No," Berit agreed with the ridiculous statement "No-one can do magic." Which was what worried him most.

"You did. Didn't you? With the wall thing."

"Yes. Exactly."

"What? You're not making any sense." The boy shook his head in confusion.

It had been a long time since Berit'd had more than passing conversation with anyone other than the Librarians. He didn't explain himself to anyone anymore and had probably lost the art of polite small talk. It had been a long time since any of that mattered but perhaps now he should care a little about putting the boy at ease. If he could remember how to go about it. He had been personable once.

Berit took a moment to try and figure out how to explain one of the fundamental truths of the universe without sounding like he was explaining to a toddler that fire was hot. To him, they were about as obvious and his teaching skills had always been patchy at best.

Start with the basics.

"I _can_ do what you would call magic. Before this afternoon I would have said there was no-one else alive who can do what I do." He said, slowly,

"What about whoever taught you?"

"Dead."

"Maybe they found an old book or something? Taught themselves. I learnt how to write shorthand from a book."

"It's not _shorthand._ It can't be learnt from a _book_." Berit snarled at the suggestion that the years of work and dedication he had put in – the sacrifices he had made – could be copied on to paper and read out by anyone who came across it.

"Even if all the words and instructions are there it's not that simple," He elaborated, standing and briskly pacing in the small space. "Magic doesn't come from yourself. Any spell or incantation is simply a complex prayer – if you get it right and are fervent enough in your devotion, the god you pray to will answer and manifest whatever miracle you are asking for. You need more than the words: you need to understand what they mean to the god you are addressing."

"And you know God?" the boy asked, amazed. As if there were only one.

"I've known many gods, learnt many prayers. Some that could have destroyed cities at one point but what I can do today is just an echo of their former power." Berit was still filled with unrestrained bitterness about that.

"Why's that?"

"Because the gods are gone."

* * *

 _Berit sat on a hilltop overlooking what was once known as Cimmura. He still thought of it that way, though the name was no longer written on any map. What had been the Royal Palace had yet another new wing and the city had encroached still further into the surrounding countryside: buildings creeping to fill land where fields once spread. The old city walls had fallen into disrepair as they had been swallowed and forgotten: as much as a relic as the longsword that lay at his feet._

 _The city was wreathed in a smoke so thick no number of fireplaces could have produced it; this was from industry and machinery and the hard march of progress. The sound of the city had changed: the creek of metal under pressure echoed through the dark and winding streets and the smell of oil and soot reached even up here._

 _Berit wasn't really sure why he had come – it was a detour of at least five hundred miles from his intended destination and he had no intention of visiting the city. But he hadn't been here for a while and sometimes, when he had spent too long in the quiet seclusion of the forest, he needed to be reminded of the way things are now._

 _There was no sound of footsteps, no rustle of disturbed leaves but Berit knew he was no longer alone – the presence was a familiar and unthreatening one._

 _"Hello, Flute" he said, not turning around. As pleased as he might be to see a friendly face, he wasn't going to make this too easy on her for she hadn't been to see him for many seasons. He often heard her – a giggle in the distance, pipes over the wind – just enough to make herself known, but seldom a full manifestation any more. Despite her promises._

 _"Can you at least pretend that you didn't feel me coming? It does wonders for my ego you know." She said, carefully sitting next to him, close but not touching._

 _"I'll try and remember that for next time." He said, suppressing a fond smile and looking at the young dark haired child beside him out of the corner of his eye. At least that's how she chose to present herself most of the time and that form was no surprise. She felt it was less threatening. Berit had let people underestimate himself enough times to know it was an excellent plan._

 _"How have you been?" She asked in her light musical voice._

 _"The same." Always the same. Which she would know if they had talked more often. "They've made a lot of changes since I was last here. It's a lot dirtier now." He gestured below. Everything changed, except him._

 _"It's progress, Berit. Humanity is going to achieve great things one day."_

 _"Is one of those things going to be cleaning up after themselves?"_

 _"I hope so, but-" She hesitated and the strangeness of a deity being uncertain was enough for his arm hair to bristle and stand on end. "- I'm not going to be around to see it. I'm leaving."_

 _Berit whipped his head round, shocked._

 _"Leaving? Where for? Tamuli? Or one of the southern continents? Why? When?" He demanded._

 _"Not Tamuli, or South. Further away than that. Much further. As much as humanity is growing so are the gods and this isn't the place for us anymore. Once we go, I won't be able to come back to talk like this."_

 _Another abandonment filed Berit with a white hot rage for a moment before it burnt itself out and left him hollow. He couldn't bear to look at her so returned to staring at the ruins of his home._

 _"I'll still listen out for you, answer your prayers." She offered, as if magic was any sort of replacement for friendship. She was the last now: the last person of any sort who knew who he really was. His friends were long gone, his family line decimated by plague, the Order records mostly destroyed by fire and flood. His name was being erased as gradually and inevitably as the river erodes the mountain._

 _"I know the others will listen too. A worshiper – no matter how distant - is to be treasured." She said._

 _So he could be almost-ignored by every other deity he had ever encountered, when they all left for whatever stage of existence they were embracing while he stagnated. That was not better._

 _"I know you're angry, and I should have told you sooner, but I don't like goodbyes, Berit. I've already been to see my other believers but I knew you would be the most difficult to say farewell to."_

 _Berit knew those visits wouldn't have taken long, the influence of all gods having waned in recent years: some had been forgotten completely by all but him. Of a short list and he was still at the bottom._

 _"I have to go now. I hope you'll forgive me one day. You'll always have my love."_

 _The ghosting of a kiss graced his cheek, burned until it was washed away by equally hot tears. The presence of the child-goddess Flute faded further than ever before until it was little more than memory of a feeling._

 _The world was empty and though Berit stretched out his mind over mountains and oceans he could find no-one or no-thing that noticed him, let alone could reach back._

 _Berit sat on a hilltop above old Cimmura, and began to ponder what it meant to be truly alone._

* * *

"What?"

"Gone. Moved on." Berit didn't like to dwell on it – the flames of that betrayal were easily fanned and would distract him. "It... It doesn't matter, except they're not here to gain any more worshippers than the one they have. That one is me and I have certainly not been converting anybody."

"How can they answer your prayers if they're dead?" The boy asked, clasping and unclasping his hands.

"Don't you listen? They're not dead, they're just not here." Berit gestured vaguely trying to convey the sense of separation by something more than mere distance. "But they are still egotistical enough not to want to let go of the last strenuous connection they have, so I still get my prayers answered. Mostly."

"And that guy in my apartment? He remembers some old god I suppose."

Berit shook his head. "No. Not only is there no way for him to know them correctly, but each type of prayer leaves a resonance; a taste in the air. I'd never felt that magic before. That was new."

"Which is bad?"

"Yes."

Old gods were intractable as mountains: mostly unyielding yet always with the possibility of death by fiery explosion. Younger gods were fickle, impatient and devasting in the way a flash flood was. In fact they caused most flash floods. A brand new, only just emerging god would have all the impulse control of a corrupt king and the same concepts of consequences as a toddler.

Last time a god was – for want of a better word – born, a forum of more senior deities had kept them in line. Now? With the world left to it's own devices? It would be very bad.

"Right." The boy said, clearly trying to fit together the pieces of his shattered world. "And how does all that relate to me?"

"I'm not sure." Berit admitted. "It shouldn't have anything to do with you, but he did mention your bloodline."

"My bloodline? Well then that's a dead end. Only child, no cousins, parents dead, I don't have kids. There is no more 'bloodline'."

Berit knelt down by the table, and dug around underneath it: pulling out a very large roll of very dusty paper. With a vigorous push he unrolled it onto the table. Branches of a family ended up broken all the time – Berit was not interested in this boy's future but what had happened to those that shared the same roots.

The new paper was a long and faded list of names. Some had one date beside it, some two. Berit thought how he should have kept it more up to date, but it was a chore for which his enthusiasm often lapsed. He closed his eyes for a moment and brushed a hand across the parchment. A shimmer ran across it, like the wave a pebble makes when dropped into a calm pond. Each name briefly shone, but then faded back to dull black ink, with a second date appearing beside many.

The boy ran a trembling finger down the list, tracing the names Berit had accumulated over centuries until he reached the only one that did not have a date of death next to it.

"What the hell is this? Why are my parents here? Why am I here?" The boy asked, a tremor in his voice.

Berit leant over to read it, that lone name. "You would be Korin, I presume. Maybe we should have a chat about your family tree."


End file.
